


Crimson and Blonde

by tfbl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, F/M, I think it's magical realism, Johnlock is a while in the making, M/M, Other, Vampires, transvestite character, vampirelock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-25 21:12:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 98
Words: 66,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tfbl/pseuds/tfbl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is still Sherlock, even if Holmes is just made up. He's a 5,000 year old Vampire whom has just met his Mate. Of course, John Watson has no idea and never will if Sherlock has anything to say about it. </p><p>A character whom is genderfluid (transvestite), as well as another that is pansexual feature very heavily in this story (although not at all in an explicit NC 17 sense), so if the character or the concept bothers you maybe it is best if you don't read. Just a fair warning.</p><p>This will become a crossover into Star Trek: Into Darkness, but not until the very end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. .01

 

Just to be clear, the short "half chapters" are flashbacks in a sense, and are not necessarily in correlation to the main chapter itself.

**_Do not own Sherlock._ **

****

** Crimson and Blonde **

**.01**

**Blood in crystal goblets, the liquid appearing black in the candlelight.**

 

 


	2. 1

 

**CHAPTER ONE**

 

Sherlock could not tell you the exact date nor the location of his birth (and yes, _born_ he was, just as Mycroft and their parents before them). You might assume this would vex him, not being able to be accurate in everything that concerns his life. In truth it does not. No. He’s narrowed it down to roughly 5,000 BC and (quite possible) somewhere in the forests of what would much, much latter become Russia.

Roughly and quite possible.

Vague to say the least, but he’s alright with that.  Just as he’s alright with the fact that he can’t remember his first taste of human blood, his last taste of chocolate liquor, nor when he first killed with regret.

If there’s one thing he’s learned it’s that if one of his kind cannot recall something it is not worth doing so, for in the expanse of their life it was of no importance.

Something that Sherlock can say with absolute certainty that he remembers are his parents.

His father was a tall man with pale skin, black hair and deep gray eyes.  Height that both his children inherited, to be sure.  Mummy, unlike Father, possessed features quite like those of her younger son, with almost sable hair and bright blue eyes, and although not quite as tall as father, she often appeared to tower over him when she was angry with him for being particularly stubborn and arrogant – asshole would be the modern term.

_((((((((((((_

One might expect their parents to have been distant and cold, maybe even abusive, after a fashion.

This was not the case.

Their Father was stern, sarcastic, egotistical, and normally stubborn beyond belief, yet he was also a protective and gentle man, readily administering affection, praise, and advise on his children and wife.  His temper did rival Mummy’s at times, so yelling was far from unheard of, but never did he deal out the slightest hint of maltreatment. He was practical as well, cautioning his sons about the appropriate dangers of rouge werewolves, sunlight, the irreversible effects white oleander and other such things, but he was not one to embellish them. Not one to make up tales of children happening upon them because of their own mischief, of humans bottling the sun or of an ancient spirit that administered white oleander to misbehaving children as they slept.

Nor did he suffer fools, which was why he insisted that in addition to learning from the scroll collection, his sons must also have a full range of practical knowledge. He would often take his sons out and teach them about the animals in the area, the medicinal purposes and dangers of herbs, testing the accuracy of the claims that they read, and even educating them about the humans that lived nearby (that they were not simply food but were intelligent s beings with families and culture all their own and must be respected, which was why they only drained the ones that were close to death).

  Mummy, like Father, was stubborn and possessed a temper, but for the most part that was where the similarities ended. She was more inclined to laughter and smiles than sarcasm and sternness (although she did that remarkably well when she wanted to). She was the one whom made their clothing, who taught he and Mycroft how to skin the animals and tan the hides, how to shape it to fit their bodies. She enjoyed learning and encouraged the same in her children and, while affectionate, was more reserved then Father _._ Particle she was, but she was also fond of stories. Marvelous tales of witches flying amongst the stars, talking animals and Gods toying with the lives of mortals and immortals alike, of demons and sentient water and fairies with brilliantly patterned wings.

_(((((((((((_

He was eight and there was a war on. There had been one on for years, although neither he nor Mycroft had been aware of it. Father and Mummy had grown up in the midst of wars – six, to be precise – and had not wanted their children to live in its shadow as they had done.

Throughout all the wars Vampires had been at the center of it regardless of their lack of numbers (astonishingly stupid of them, really). Before it had been between Witches. Now, for the past thirty years, in fact, Werewolves were considered the enemy.

Extremely large both in wolf and human form, very intelligent, terribly fast, as well as fierce fighters. It was a mistake to engage them, especially over something as abundant as land.

Engage his kind did, however.

If they had not then Sherlock and Mycroft would never have been awoken just before dawn, their parents eye’s terrified as they yanked them from the bed and their grip tight around their arms. Father and Mummy had ran through the forest going faster then they’d ever gone before, their feet a blur as they pulled them along headless  to Mycroft’s worried queries and Sherlock’s tear stained face.

There was loud noises behind them, crashing and thumping along with heavy breathing. Lots of noise. Like the wolf packs in the forest only bigger. Much bigger.

Something is wrong.

Something is very, very wrong.

They had reached a large waterfall, behind which was a long, narrow tunnel that lead deep into the rock face. Without pause Mummy flung Mycroft down it, Father shoving Sherlock down after him moments latter. The rock is wet as Sherlock slides down, crashing into Mycroft at bone breaking speed. Mycroft does not utter a sound. Instead he wraps an arm across his younger brother’s chest and crushes him to his body, his other hand going up to cover his mouth least any sound escape. The tunnel is pitch black, completely devoid of light. They are safe down here from the sun, but what of whatever they are running from? What of Father and Mummy? Their footsteps have already faded away, their sharp order of “Stay!” ringing in Sherlock’ s ears, that _law_ forcing him and Mycroft to obey. Why aren’t they with them? They need a place to hide from the dawn sun too.

Those loud animal noises are getting louder and louder now. Within seconds Sherlock can tell they are right on top of them and Mycroft curls his larger body around his brother even tighter in an instinctive attempt to protect him, his lips brushing the back of his neck as he does so. Sherlock digs his nails into Mycroft’s arm, headless of the blood he’s drawing.

_Don’t let go, Brother. Don’t let go._

The sounds above them have become fainter, if only just. Neither Sherlock nor Mycroft’s hold upon the  other loosens.

It happens within seconds.

Snarls and hisses and tearing flesh.

Blood splattering the ground, teeth snapping and bones breaking and screams of pain coupled with howls of agony.

Skin burning.

Blood boiling.

Hair scorching.

Blisters oozing.

Fire catching.

Screaming.

 Two long, drawn out screams.

The screams stop.

Sherlock and Mycroft lie within their tunnel, numb with shock.

They tremble, wishing they could get up and leave the tunnel but their elder’s order preventing it.

The two brother’s hold each other, and within their chests their hearts beat humanly, painfully fast, pounding out the throbbing beat of the war drums.


	3. .02

 

.02

The first time he read the poem was two years after its original publication. At first, when Sherlock read the lines about pleasure domes and maids he had laughed before tossing the book aside, finding the lines themselves as well as the origin of their creation to be typical as well as amusing.  In time, however, it had grown on him. Perhaps it was because, unlike most things in his life, the poem was consistent. A mountain standing firm in the middle of the sea. Maybe it was due to how, when one night out of sheer boredom, he had reread the poem, and as he studied the lines, as he turned them over and over in his mind in every language he knew, he began to find them beautiful. Perhaps it was because, as time passed and Sherlock was forced to alter himself, the lines provided a feeling of calm, a sense of safety and , oddly enough ownership, that Sherlock had not experienced for a great many decades. Whatever the reason the lines were repeated and copied down often enough to flow without conscious thought, weather it was his mind or pen forming the words. Within time they became as natural as breathing.


	4. .03

 

.03

There was not an exact moment when Sherlock realized that Mycroft was different. That he took both men and woman not because he was attracted to them both, but because he did not notice which gender they possessed. Because he cared about their personality and wit and the manner in which they held themselves, rather then what was between their legs or what they wore. When Sherlock did realize it, fully realize it, he’d mentally shrugged and directed his sibling’s attention to a slight, dark skinned man laughing at the opposite table. What did it matter? Mycroft was still Mycroft.


	5. 2

 

**CHAPTER TWO**

Drugs.

Cocaine, tobacco, opium, alcohol, and everything else under the moon and sun. Plant matter, chemical compounds, and oil extract that are meant to alter perception, to create visions and make a body dance and the mind to do a deadly rainbow twirl as muscles seize and breath stills, as deity’s speak and the devils claws gouge and laughter echoes inside of helpless skulls.

They have been in existence since the beginning of time and even if their use is ceased entirely, they will remain, just in an undulated form.

When someone (he’s deleted whom it was that did so) asked which species had created them, Sherlock had been unable to say. Human? Vampire? Perhaps both races began the experimentation at the same time, whenever that time may be.

What Sherlock does know is that pure mortal drugs do not have any effect whatsoever upon his kind. The drugs that are required to effect them are consisted of matter that, alone, is more than enough to kill a human outright, whereas with them it only achieves an altered state of conchies.

For centuries, Sherlock recalled, he’d viewed mind altering substances as vile. As a foolish indulgences and something that only the weak partook in.

Then.

Then in 1899 he took a case that resulted in a vampire child being slaughtered in front of him and arriving too late to prevent the parents from immersing themselves in liquid silver. Too late to prevent them from committing suicide. Then, afterwards when there was no more cases, when his mind had been nearly consuming itself with boredom and, no matter how hard he’d tried the image of bubbling hoary flesh and the echo of high pitched, terrified pleading would not be deleted…. Sherlock had decided to try some.

Just one shot was all. Just to experience something new. Something different and complex. Something that would make it – _them and it and **oh please help me please please help**_ – would make everything stop.

So he’d injected it into his veins. A clear, liquid solution of Belladonna, Ash, Human bone, Hellebore, American Pokeweed, Purple Nightshade, and the slightest drop of silver.

He’d pushed the plunger down and…

Oh yes!

Yes!

Bliss. It was the sweetest blood and greatest fucking session and the sunlight sinking into your skin and music flowing from your fingers and so, so much more and…

Everything was quiet. Still. Silent. Nothing.

 _This_ was why they took them, humans and vampires alike. _This_ was _why_.

Days latter the drug began to wear off and Sherlock had come to too his brother shouting his name, his siblings hands like iron brands upon his arms as Mycroft shook him like a rag doll and bruised his face with the force of his strike.

Sherlock had pushed away Mycroft’s hands and sat upright, feeling nothing a flash of irritation that Mycroft was present and that his high had been so rudely brought to an end.

Sherlock stares up at Mycroft, watching as his brother takes in the syringe lying on the table and the scent lingering in the air. The navy blue fabric of his coat and scarf hanging haphazardly on the back of a chair, as well as Sherlock’s exposed arm and _no_ evidence of a struggle. Sherlock also sees the expression that flicks over Mycroft’s face. One of disappointment and pain and fear and something that makes it clear that Mycroft would heave right there upon the floor if he were able and give Sherlock his own blood if it would purge the drug from his system.

Sherlock sees but, due perhaps do to the lingering effects of the drug, he fails to observe. He had not observed that Mycroft, whose voice was normally quiet, cool, and aloof… had been _screaming_ , and that those screams that had consisted of one name and one name only, had been filled with pure and utter terror.  Sherlock does not observe his brother’s pupils; blown so wide that not a trace of blue could be found, nor does he observe Mycroft’s arterial pulse; the vein pumping -throbbing and pounding a pulsating beat of the war drums -  humanly fast, painfully fast - underneath the skin. Sherlock does not observe the fully dropped fangs nor Mycroft’s bloodless face coupled with his shaking hands and not even the small hisses of distress that escape the vocal cords of the one before him. Nor does Sherlock observe that for the first time in his life, Mycroft had _struck_ him.

But even if Sherlock had observed he would not have cared. From that point forward he was an addict, and as his gaze landed on the empty vial upon the table, the only clear thought in his mind was getting his next fix.

That was the way it remained for just two years shy of a centaury. It did not matter what his brother and sister-in-law did. How much they pleaded and bribed, what they gave nor what they took away, nor how frequent their attempts to dispose of the toxin from Sherlock’s home. It made no difference whom was killed for providing the drug, the number of interventions they staged and not even when, in what was perhaps a last ditch effort, they severed ties completely for six years.

Sherlock continued to obtain the drug, continued to inject and make his mind dance even while it was as silent as the grave. His tolerance built and so he began to require a higher dosage, and he’d responded as such, obtaining even more. He continued to wake up with seamen leaking from his ass and aching limbs and kept on selling himself as well as buying and stealing and almost loosing control and going on a feeding frenzy when he’d come to after weeks without a single drop of human blood sliding down his throat. Those words that he knew by heart, words of voices prophesying war  ran uncontrobally through his mind, no longer a source of comfort. He failed to notice when human fashions changed around him, wearing clothing at least five years out of date and only altering his coat himself twice within all those years (Mycroft paid for the necessary alterations). He continued to waste away until he was skin stretched over bone and the bags under his eyes resembled bruises more then anything else and his eyes became as dull as a corpse. Until, unknown to him, Mycroft held his hand, broke down and sobbed after the twentieth near fatal overdose and Anthea put the couch through the wall and glass through her hand.

In true addict fashion Sherlock did not see anything wrong with his behavior. It was his choice and it wasn’t like he was harming those two infuriating busybodies and any human or vampire that he chose to fuck was his business, not theirs.

Besides it was not like his mental functions and observational abilities were anyway impaired, and when his son, Michael, came along never once did Sherlock shoot up around the boy. He always made sure that the drugs were hidden and the child was away or in another’s capable hands before injecting the liquid into his bloodstream.

That rock bottom everyone’s got? Sherlock’s came one day in 1998, when high out of his mind and convinced that Anthea had disposed of his drugs, had almost shoved her out into the last rays of the setting sun. The sun that would have killed her.

That had never happened before. Never had he been so high that he’d attempted to murder one of his… one of his family. It was there, as he laid upon on the dirty floor of his flat pinned under Mycroft’s fangs, his blood coating Anthea’s hands testament to the multiple wounds that covered his entire upper body, that Sherlock decided to give up the drugs. It was not just because his brother and sibling were… _necessary_ … but because The Work was also becoming effected by his near constant altered state, and The Work was much more important then mere _sentiment_. Yes. That’s why Sherlock went cold turkey. Why he dove into hell and endured seizures and sweats, fire ripping across his body and saw his parents and Mycroft and that that vampire child as well as a child with a torn throat, all drenched in blood and silver as they stood by his bedside. It was why Sherlock  fought like a feral tiger, fangs ripping and nails tearing at anything within reach and muscles bulging underneath his wasted skin, why he was screaming even when he’d no voice left to scream and why he was glad for the restraints that held him.

Because of The Work.

Sure.

 _That_ was why.

It had nothing to do with the blisters on Anthea’s arms nor Mycroft’s hunched form as he supported himself against the wall of his little brother’s detox room. It had nothing to do with the cocktail of fear-guilt-disgust that was eating away at his stomach lining.

Nope.

Nothing at all.

((((((((((

Of course it was a struggle, staying clean. How could it not be, after 98 years of not being so?

Admittedly, however, it was a relief to let his deductions to soar, to fly across his brain and out of his mouth without any regard for restraint or utterly pointless social conventions. To leave mortals gapping in his wake and his brother stiff lipped and straight backed with disapproval.

When the deductions weren’t enough? When he wanted another hit so badly he was shaking with it and that poem of a burning tree  and his violin did nothing to calm him?

He took up smoking. Another drug, yes, but not one nearly as dangerous. It was the expensive kind to, and not just because of the 4,320 ingredients. No. It was fifteen pounds per pack because, unlike the low tar stuff, you could really taste the Purple Julie and Linden Bark, not to mention the Rose oil and essence of Datura as well as Brugmansia, the pure Perique and aconite. Then there was the scent of Mint that lingered in the air for an hour after one had ceased to smoke.

When that didn’t quiet cut it?

Then he threw himself into The Work and bothered New Scotland Yard day in and day out until a younger, newly appointed head officer by the name of Lestrade gave him a case just to shut him up, only to be astonished when Sherlock solved it within twelve hours and told them exactly where to find the murderer. There were many more cases after that.

  _Thank god_ Sherlock will never admit to.


	6. .04

 

.04

Mycroft’s hair has thinned as well as receded. Must be horrible for him, to have ceased to age with half a bald head, especially since here in this cold and green seaside landscape in which they find themselves, males with thick, full heads of hair are considered desirable.

Catching the sound of his brother’s laughter Mycroft stiffens before whirling a sharp retreat to his side of the wooden structure, becoming determinedly interested in sharpening his knife as he stays despite his ire.


	7. .05

.05

 

They have been living together for some time, Mycroft and this female vampire. The one with the long brown hair that smells of snow, parchment, and poppies. Anthea, Sherlock thinks she is called. At first Sherlock assumes that, like many of Mycroft’s relationships, it is simple companionship that holds them together, but when he visits them in the Northern Ireland and sees Mycroft laughing at something she has said – laughing as he had not done in decades and decades – Sherlock begins to rethink his earlier assumption, just ever so slightly.


	8. .06

 

.06

Although Father towers over Mummy by a good foot he seems to shrink before her, having just made a comment that Mummy considers to be particularly distasteful, judging by the angry tone of her screams. As Sherlock watches his parents the moonlight breaks through the trees, causing Mummy’s eyes to flash. Father still looks embarrassed for his earlier remark, but there is a strange light in his eyes as he looks at Mummy.

Mycroft, seeing the transition as well, tugs on Sherlock’s hand to lead him away even though the wind isn’t blowing in their direction and they are behind a really big tree. Mummy and Father can’t see or smell them to why must they leave?

“Why does Father look at Mummy like that, Mycroft? It’s a funny look.”  Sherlock asks as he runs along at his brothers side.

“It is nothing, Sherlock. Father is just – um – hungry, that’s all.”

“Still? We just drained three humans.”

“Yes, well sometimes adults have to eat more then kids do.”

“Why?”

“They just do.” Mycroft points up ahead  “Look, see that big tree? I’ll race you.”

The conversation forgotten Sherlock speeds ahead of Mycroft (whom is thirteen and knows almost everything, so he must be right), because that tree is the biggest one he’s ever seen and he’s going to win this time.


	9. 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

 

Sherlock smells him before he sees him. Earth, coffee and oranges all mixed together with the sun.

An odd scent to be sure, especially for a human. The footsteps come closer, halting completely within the basement lab before Sherlock decides to glance up at Mike and the no doubt boring human tag along that are invading his workspace.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

The man accompanying Mike is not boring at all. No. Short and solidly muscled, with graying blonde hair, common blue eyes and non descript features, he’s not stunning to look at to be sure, but then again most individuals are not.  There is something to him that Sherlock can not put his finger on. Not yet. It is not _just_ that this man is an army doctor recently returned home from Afaganstain with an estranged alcoholic brother and a limp that’s mostly mental. (Sherlock tells him as much, expecting defensiveness and instead feeling pride and an odd thump in his stomach when the man is actually impressed. As well he should be, of course).  Nor is it his scent or how he drank sweetened coffee even though he normally wouldn’t touch the stuff, and it is not even the way his eyes never leave Sherlock’s form although most people can’t look away quickly enough.

No. It’s something else that makes him different from the dull hordes of the masses.

Well he will just have to find out, won’t he?

It is fortunate that Molly chooses that moment to enter the lab to bring him his requested cup of the standard  Bart’s coffee (absolutely horrible but that thankfully has the correct amount of fresh blood glucose), for Sherlock has just been struck with a faintly compelling urge to scent the man’s neck. Stupid. He’s not in the least bit hungry, so why on _earth_ should he want to do that?

Taking a moment to compose himself Sherlock fiddles with the dial on the microscope and pointedly ignores Molly’s hopeful flirtation attempts – it is not that he does not appreciate the woman despite not having the least amount of romantic interest in her, but _honestly_ if the young witches’’ crush on him was any more clear she’d be singing it from the rooftops, and seeing as how most of her feelings have to do with an attraction to his vampirism (yes, Molly is fully aware of what he is) she should really see a therapist to sort out her issues before her emotions deepen any further. In addition it is obvious to him that Lestrade finds her appealing, physically and emotionally so. Lestrade, however, has yet to act on his attraction, for although his marriage is failing (for roughly four years, in fact) Lestrade honors the commitment he made if not so much the woman he made them _to_. At least not anymore. Besides, Sherlock has enough self awareness to know that even if he himself were romantically interested in Molly, the…. respect with which he has come to regard Lestrade over their long association would prevent him from openly returning her feelings.

Composure regained Sherlock quickly lists off some of his habits that he’s found humans find the most annoying as he tests the waters to gauge the mans willingness to sharing a flat with him. The man brushes aside the list before agreeing with his silence (he doesn’t say no outright, and what person in their right mind would take a one room bedsit over a flat in London?) So Sherlock gives him his name and the location of their meeting on his way out the door, his coat tails swishing behind him, trusting that the man will not show up if the flat is truly not desired. That night before going to sleep, instead of wandering around London or solving cold cases from file for the fun of it, Sherlock drinks milky tea from an orange mug and manually writes those lines once again, this time in ancient Hebrew, there is a rarely experienced feeling of pleasure in his stomach.

***************

 

_Blonde hair._

_A small hand waving at him._

_Laughter._

Sherlock wakes with tears drying on his face.

It had not been a nightmare, so why is he crying?

Why does it feel like there’s a stone in his chest?

 

*****************

Any worry that Sherlock might have felt, as it turned out, was pointless. John shows up the next morning and is agreeable to both the flat and Mrs. Hudson (and she should really change her name, seeing as she’s a widow now that her child killing husband’s been given the death penalty… but it’s her choice Sherlock supposes).

John follows him to the crime scene with excitement practically dripping off him and when he not only  determines the cause of death of the woman with surprising accuracy and efficiency, but is not angry that Sherlock left him behind and refuses to accept the money Mycroft offered to spy on him when most humans would have been downright livid and jumped at the chance despite being rightfully afraid of the most dangerous individual they would ever meet  – oh yes, definitely not boring, this human. Definitely not.

What follows is even more… well, even more.

Sherlock takes John to eat at Angelo’s and John, with his half smile and halting words that could honestly be anything from an awkward conversation starter to a stumbling pick up line actually _distracts_ Sherlock from the case. From the murderer and the pink clad woman and that constant desire to know that is burning in his blood. That is extrondiry, and what is even more so is that when Sherlock takes off at a fast human pace John readily tears after him across the rooftops of London chasing a cab and doesn’t walk away right there because _you’re downright crazy, mate_.

Then John defends him against Lestrade and his idiotic team during that fake drug bust, even though John’s got no way of knowing just how true Lestrade’s concern is and that any drugs that were found would be enough to kill these mortals within seconds and send Sherlock straight to prison were he bound by their laws.

Then Sherlock chases after the murderer and is confronted by a pill and a shot is fired across the street by someone possessing steady hands that is clearly a crack shot with nerves of steel and there is a name that passes through dying mortal lips.

Unsurprisingly that crack shot is John Watson whom is more then fine with killing a man _it’s fine, it’s all fine_ (and should Sherlock be surprised anymore, really? Perhaps not, but he is so nevertheless) and then John is laughing along with him and, apart from the aftermath of the cab chase, Sherlock cannot recall the last time he _laughed_. Genuinely laughed because of pleasure, not for a case or out of mockery or because it was expected of him because it was what his current persona demanded. It feels good. It feels so very, _very_ good.

When Mycroft and Anthea turn up outside the building John stands straight and tall in front of the elder man, unafraid and determined to protect him, Sherlock, from someone whom John only suspects to be a threat. John’s got no way of knowing that Mycroft could kill him in an instant if he wished, but he’s got a feeling that John would stand his ground even if he were. John calms once he is aware of Mycroft’s relation and convinced of his genuine concern (which Sherlock knows is founded for all that it annoys him all the same, for the pill had been the powered form of what he’d once shoved into his veins and he had wanted that capsule. Wanted to crack it open and allow it to dissolve in his salvia, allow it to slide down his throat and feel that bliss again so damn badly his hands shook as his muscles spasmed and heart raced and his mind said _just one, just once more, go on then what could it hurt_?)

Sherlock will not admit to the validness of Anthea’s concerned gaze and Mycroft’s tight grip on his umbrella handle however, and leads John away, well aware that his surveillance has just been activated.

That night, as John Watson sleeps in the room above and as Sherlock conducts experiments and carefully washes the blood stains out of his mug, he is only parity aware that John’s unique scent has already become fixed within his mind and that the desire he felt as Bart’s to scent the ex soldier’s throat has not dissipated.  He is fully aware, however of the lines his pen insists on placing on paper. Lines of measureless cavers and sacred oceans.  Lines that had been running through his mind since that shot rang out.

 


	10. .07

.07

It takes Sherlock a while to figure out why Mycroft is with her. This Anthea. Yes, she’s pretty, but their relationship cannot be purely for physical pleasure (for she would already be gone by now if that were the case). She is intelligent and has a… remarkable skill set, but it would require something truly amazing to capture Mycroft’s interest.

The day that Sherlock meets Andrew, a feminine looking man with a broad mostly flat chest and feet a shoulders width apart, dressed in breaches and tights with a low pony tail and a dagger at his belt, Sherlock does a quick double take before _Oh. That was why_.

So Sherlock shakes his hand and says _I do not believe we have met_ and the fear disappears from those brown eyes and Andrew says, _I am quite sure we have not._ Sherlock releases his hand and continues the conversation he’d struck up with Anthea the day pervious, concerning land rights and archery, and Andrew smiles and gestures with his hand and speaks in a low form of Anthea’s cultured tones as Mycroft listens quietly from the upper floor, and Sherlock thinks _This is why_.


	11. .08

.08

The woman standing next to Mummy is scary. She has Mummy’s height and eyes but Mycroft’s hair, only longer, the reddish brown wave falling almost to her waist. The height isn’t a bad thing, because most everyone are as tall as Mommy, but that is Mycroft’s hair. No one else is supposed to have it because Mycroft is the only one who does. Did the woman steal it? And why is it so long? Mycroft’s hair never gets like that and he’s going to be angry that the woman took such bad care of it. The white fur the woman wears is funny too, because the almost all of the animals here have dark fur. Mummy says that animals with white fur are special. That they give you good dreams and make the snow. Did the woman kill all the white animals? Are there going to be no more good dreams or snow?

Unbidden tears form in his eyes, the water rolling down his face before he can wipe it away. Only babies cry, and he is no baby! He’s four and a big boy! He can even drink milk now, not just blood. Big boys drink milk, Daddy said so.

But the woman is scary and he can’t help crying, and it only gets worse when the woman sneers at him and says something mean sounding in another lankywhich when Mummy picks him up and carries him to his room.

It’s almost like when Daddy says something mean, but when Mummy talks back to the woman in the same lankywhich, (her voice sharp and angry and the word for Mother sounding strange), the woman doesn’t look sorry like Daddy does.

He doesn’t like her anymore and he wants her to go away.

He buries his face inside Mummy’s neck as Mummy carries him back to his and Mycroft’s room.

There! That made the mean lady go away.


	12. .09

  
.09

The smooth glide of a horse beneath him, the powerful muscles coiling and bunching in a smooth and steady rhythm underneath the shinning coat.


	13. 4

 

CHAPTER FOUR

 

Sometimes, as in now, Sherlock wonders what he was thinking taking a human for a flatemate.

Such as now. He desperately wants a smoke but can’t do it in the flat, for John would smell the orders and know that whatever it is he is smoking is not a normal cigarette.  If he smoked a “normal” cigarette the only thing he would achieve would be a horrible taste in his mouth and an even stronger craving.

Then there is the body parts in the fridge and the lack of food, the latter of which Sherlock had actually forgotten was necessary to maintain appearances, and the former of which John objects to.

Not to mention John’s nagging concern for what he views as Sherlock’s lack of proper rest (he’s sleeping his required nine hours per week thank you very much,  but of course he can’t tell John that).

Of course there is the issue of blood. It is not that Sherlock has any desire to drain John, but rather that Sherlock has to time the consumption of his twice weekly blood bag according to John’s sleep schedule and absences’ from the flat (and then he must _explain_ the empty bags), whereas before he’d eat whenever he felt like it. And _dear god_ can he get hungry. During the day sometimes it’s only due to the lack of milk that John leaves for the necessary amount of time. Thank god for drains and the setting of the sun. It’s a good thing that he no longer has to drain humans completely, otherwise that would produce a whole new set of problems.

It is latter that day, when John comes back from a walk and makes an enquiry about the amount of food Sherlock has consumed today – went to the park, dirt on his shoes, mustard on his sleeve so he stopped by the sandwich shop near the entrance, eyes bright and color high yet he wasn’t running nor is it cold so he… saw someone that aroused him – that Sherlock has had enough.

Slamming down the paper he swings on his coat and scarf before storming out of the flat, expertly cutting through the crowd and tuning out the hurricane of scents and sounds before stopping twelve streets away. Leaning against the outside of a video store Sherlock smokes four cigarettes in rapid succession before heading to the shops.

When arriving back at the flat he ignores John’s questions as he thumps down the juicer, a box of special blue nicotine patches, and grocery bags upon the table before flinging himself back into his chair.

*************

Two weeks latter at appears that pretending to take naps on the couch and regularly drinking the juice from the vegetables and fruits appears to have eased some of John’s concerns, at least.

Now if only he could find a case, have a smoke, and take off this infuriating patch.


	14. .10

 

.10

By now John has learned to recognize those lines. Knows them regardless of the  language or the form that they take. Knows them and is aggravated by them, finds them comforting and odd all at once. John asks him to stop once or twice (or twelve or nineteen) and doesn’t appear to mind (not really, at least), when he does not. It seems that around John, the words – words of flashing eyes and floating hair - are always somewhere in the back of his mind, hovering near the page and dancing on the tip of his tongue.


	15. .11

 

.11

_Blood, thick and hot._

_Stones beneath him, smooth and cool._

_Brown eyes blank, staring up at him._

_Dead eyes._

Sherlock wakes with a gasp, fear running through him. He stares at the ceiling above him, unseeing. He has not experienced a nightmare in a while, but this one was especially troubling.

Especially vivid.

He can still feel the stones underneath his palms.

Still see the blood and those eyes.

Still feel the fear.

 It is a long time before sleep claims him once again.


	16. .12

 

.12

The poster offers nine hundred dollars for him, this Negro man whom killed his Master before fleeing.

The Negro man whom killed his Master because the Master killed the wife and raped the children of said Negro man, but of course _that_ was not seen as a crime.

It never is.

Except, of course, when it _is_.

It is now.

It is seen as such, now _now and forever_  by this dark skinned man with ebony eyes, _almost as empty as the graves, they are_   and fingers marred with fishhook scars and whose back is little more then a roadmap of raised flesh _raised by the whip and paddle and the switch and maggots burrowing into the rotting skin_.

It is seen as such by Sherlock (or William, rather, for now at least), a vampire residing deep within the woods, whom is the shade that the mortal has learned to resent and skin that cannot mar _cannot _but if he looks and thinks he can see every mark that should lay there, lay there for centuries and decades and hours__ whose clothing is poor and hair unwashed and whose accent falls like rolling green hills from his lips _white back woods trash he is, mother most likely a whore, no better then a dog or those half breeds and he’s stupider then an imbecile I’ve heard._

It is seen as a crime, by these two.

A mortal and a vampire, both sets of eyes dark and shadowed, for each have already seen far, far too much.

So the reward is scoffed at, dogs and mortals are driven off the trail, and the runaway hides in safety inside of a vampire’s cellar.

The Master?

Well, people go missing all the time.

Take a wrong turn in the woods, have a bad fall from a horse, are set upon by a pack of wolves or robbers.

Perhaps they left, walked out on their family. Happens often enough, even though everyone pretends that it doesn’t.

Simple, really.

To ensure that the body is never found, that the lack of blood is never explained.

 After all, everyone knows that the most dangerous people live in the woods.


	17. 5

 

 

CHAPTER FIVE

 

John is attracted to Anthea. It’s obvious as well as utterly futile.

Futile for even if John had been aware that the dark haired woman was a vampire, for all the attention that Anthea pays John he might as well be a wall fixture. Her complete and utter disinterest could not be more clear. As is the case, once their kind have Mated.

Yes.

Mated Anthea is, and to Mycroft no less. Not that anyone watching them would know that they are together, of course. While working, while in public, it is strictly professional. All _Mr. Holmes_ and _make copies of this, my dear_ and _here’s your tea sir_ and _you do not have an appointment so **please** remove yourself at once. _

Even their private lives are similar. There are separate homes and bank accounts, cars owned that the other would never step  foot in. The _my dear_ carries over, as does the tea service and _remove yourself from the premises._

If anyone would observe however, they would see the soft smiles and the way their hands nearly brush, the manner in which their eyes follow the other and how Anthea carries a lighter even though she is not the one who smokes and the matching rings that adorn their hands. If one looked they would notice that money is drawn out of each account by either party, that clothing and books and alcohol unsuited to the presence of the owner line the closets and shelves of each home and that both pillows always have creases. They would see that the teacup contains liquid that is too vibrant to be tea, _my dear_ is code the same as taps of 143*, and that _remove yourself_ means that she will burn the city and rip you to pieces while you scream.

No one actually does, of course.

John is no exception, and so when Mycroft and Anthea visit the flat he allows John’s ridiculous flirtation attempts despite the fact that she does not once glace up from her phone. That day John’s comments are centered upon Anthea’s deep gold silk blouse, and Sherlock chooses to remain silent rather then inform John of Mycroft’s corresponding tie is (which is actually Andrews’) and that the blouse was chosen because it drove Mycroft to distraction, for an hour ago it had been crumpled up on the floor at their feet – in the kitchen of their Greater London home, as is evidenced by the odor of Maple that clings to the fabric.

After Mycroft and Anthea have left John, in a fit of embarrassed frustration, mutters something unflattering in regards to her name and that “infernal Blackberry”.

Out of sight behind John’s back Sherlock’s lip twitches in amusement, for although Anthea was her birth name, Andrew was not far behind. As for altering the name in accordance to the current body that is on portrayal, that is, more or less, a matter of personal choice. Those two names have not always been the sole ones, however, just as she has not always been his Mycroft’s Personal Assistant.

Since the first time Sherlock made Andrews' acquaintance there have been a verity of names as well as professions, almost all of them by Mycroft’s side.

Beatrice, Viktor, Antony, Pamela, Iris, and Elizabeth.

A Nun to his Priest, antique dealer to his pawnbroker, cop to his deputy, maid to his stable hand.

Liam, Emily, Margret, Jacob, Catherine, Helena, Thomas, and George.

Queen to his King, mayor to his governor, slave to his master, inventor to his scientist, lady to his lord.

Charles, April, Olivia, Hannah, Alexandria, Robert, Matthew, Jonathan, and Lucinda.

Doctor to his Painter, helper to his cripple, librarian to his professor, spinner to his weaver, solider to his medic.

As for that Blackberry? Besides being essential for her current employment, it is hardly the last thing that has been glued to her hand.

A long bow, revolver, knife and sword, stone tablets and animal skin scrolls, sharpened sticks and spears, chipped bones and predator’s fangs and twisted human flesh and tasers and cowhide whips have all had their place within her grasp. Even now, at times, the knife and gun make their way back.

The Blackberry is simply her current weapon of choice.

 

* 143 is code for I love you (One letter in I,  Four in Love, and three in You).


	18. .13

 

.13

_It’s all fine_ , John had said. Sherlock had spoken sharply for a moment, there at the table with Angelo bustling past, as the recent debate about transvestite rights ran through his mind.

He doesn’t know why they need a label, any more then rights need to be discussed. People are still people and rights are still rights, regardless if that person is a him or a her or somewhere in between.

For Andrew is Anthea and Anthea is Andrew, all one and the same.

Still his sibling.

Still the person that spied and flirted and hacked computers and threw a few bombs while letting bullets fly and got their hands much more than a little dirty over at every branch of M*.

 Still the one whom holds Mycroft’s hand and averts international crisis before they happen.

Still the woman that refused the advances of Henry VII and the man whom forces Mycroft to watch the National Geographic channel.

Still the person that Sherlock could not imagine his life without.

That night, while John is asleep and Andrew comes to visit after a two week long absence, dressed in a suit that costs more then the building they are standing in and arguers with him and drinks wine and gestures with his hand and  _almost_ wins (once again) at Go as laughter builds in his throat… it is still the same.

 

*  “M” refers to the British Directorate of Military Intelligence (more or less the secret service), all branches of which are described here:  <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Directorate_of_Military_Intelligence#Sections>


	19. .14

 

.14

Mycroft raises an eyebrow at the ruby studded collar around Lander’s neck, and in true feline fashion, the White Siberian flicks an ear toward the elder vampire as if to say “why are you not serving me yet?”


	20. .15

 

.15

The snow tumbles down the mountain, a huge and deadly wave of white that obliterates everything in its path.


	21. .16

 

.16

John is signing in the shower. He’s got absolutely horrible pitch, which is no surprise considering the amount of yelling he did last night while they were on that case of “The Speckled Blond”, as John insists on titling it in his blog. _Stupid. Predictable, dull, and utterly stupid title._

From his spot in the chair opposite, Mycroft winces and raises his eyebrows, looking pointedly at his brother.

_You’re still sure about this, then?_

Sherlock raises his lips to exposes the barest hint of fang.

_Yes. Absolutely._

John’s voice reaches a patictually high note.

A bird flies away from the windowsill in alarm.

Mycroft looks again. Sherlock stares back.

_Perfectly sure._


	22. 6

CHAPTER SIX

 

There was not an exact moment as to when Sherlock knew that John Watson, an ex- army doctor with a limp and a bad shoulder and a thirst for danger, ceased to be flatemate and friend and became Mate to his mind. (For all he knows it could have been the day they met, what with his mind demanding that he scent John, that he take the first step of Claiming regardless of his lack of romantic feelings towards him).

When he came to love him.

Not when he first clapped eyes on him nor when John was one of the first individuals to say _Brilliant_ instead of _Piss off, Freak, Shaman, You do the work of the devil good sir_!

It was not when concern was directed his way, new (interesting) books were laid out on the table, nor when John killed Jeff Hope with a crack shot.

It just happened somewhere along the way. At some point John was Mate (at some small, unidentifiable point John became his _world_ ), and at very same point Sherlock wanted to claim his body and taste his blood and hold and protect and give and have while being possessed and taking the silver chains in his name. At the very same point Sherlock knew those lines of ice caverns that take shape upon his lips will never cease.

For that, Sherlock knew (intellectually until that point) was the one identifiable thing that classified a Mate ( soulmate, genetic match, lifelong friend and lover as well as annoyance); not only the urge to own and be owned, (to destroy the world and give your soul and life and money and anything else you had to give, to constantly feel them beside you and notice every heartbeat) but the almost uncontrobale urge to Claim them. To taste their blood and breath their scent and mark them in the manner that is as old as time itself, to Sherlock’s kind.

That was, perhaps, the sole difference between Lovers, Wife, Husband, Friend. For while you may love them, may be willing to do almost anything for the formers, you were not willing to do the last.

(And yes, Sherlock has had lovers, wife’s, and enough men that were as good as husbands to know the difference. The last one? Not so much, but he can still tell that _this_ that he feels for John Watson is _not_ simple friendship).

_Marian. I offer you the ruin of my career. A young, beautiful woman on a ship passing by. Miss. Cumbley is not a school girl sir!_

_Isaac. What’d you want with me? Dark eyes and Native skin dressed in white man’s gard, the nature of their relationship forbidden. You’re tempting me into sin, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. You couldn’t get rid of me if you’d tried._

_Samson, Zia, and Quinn. Richard, Victor, and Valentine and thousands of people that were lovers of importance and fucks of little to no consequence._

He held sentiment towards them, married some while “lived in sin” with others, cared for them, and would have done _almost_ anything for others still.

Almost. Not everything. Not that _one_ thing.

He had never experienced that urge with them.

Now with John? That was not even a question. If it were possible _and_ desired he would have done it in a heartbeat. It was not, however.

Possible.  

Desired.

None of it.

For John Watson, his Mate, is heterosexual, and would not welcome the Claim, to say nothing of the physical and emotional desire (possession) that would follow the act. Well, for Sherlock, at least. John, being human, was unlikely to experience it at all…. and that would only create guilt on John’s part, if he realized how he, Sherlock, felt in regards to him.

So no.

Claiming John, to say nothing of informing him, was not an option.

Forcing him (raping him, for in this case it did not matter if sexual contact took place) was equally out of the question. Had never been part of the equation.

Sherlock will not revel this, for if he does so he may lose his friend.

He will not, and it may kill him, but he will keep his Mate.

He can live with that (for a time, at least).


	23. .17

 

.18

Father, his large hand cradling his face, his thumb tracing his cheek. My darling boy. Lips against his forehead, soft and dry. Eyes gazing into Mycroft’s twin orbs, his hand gently rubbing his sons back. Tongue softly licking the blood away from the cut on his hand. Kissing Mummy’s cheek before breathing deeply as he scents her neck, his lips quirked and eyes soft.


	24. .19

 

.19

A wool, navy blue scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, like the silk caveat that had once graced it. A caveat that had been like the ropes, like the collars of iron and silver and leather, like the hands and fangs along with fur and burlap and jeweled cockers. Sherlock likes the scarf best, he thinks.


	25. .20

 

.20

Sherlock watches the sugar cube dissolve in his spoon. Places another one inside the small, steaming caffeinated oasis, and watches it again. John, his eye slightly blackened due to their latest hysterical client taking a swing at him, sits down in the seat opposite him. A few lines involving a thrice weaved circle run through his mind (in French this time), and as John places his order Sherlock realizes that this was the first time that the mere presence of someone had caused the words to form.


	26. 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

 

The sides of the building that Sherlock calls home rise high above the rooftop, easily exceeding eight feet in height and blocking the view of the roof itself from the buildings opposite. This is a good thing, for Sherlock lies on the rooftop with his coat underneath him, naked despite the chill that has taken up residence in the air. The moon and stars are bright in the sky above him, and he knows that he has Mycroft to thank for that. Knows that Mycroft is responsible for the citywide blackout the occurred minutes after Sherlock sent his text.

_Make it dark._

So his brother had.

Even the cars and the Tube have died.

It is a relief, for all that he loves London it is far, far too bright, and it often impedes the feel of the lights within the sky.

Said light falls down upon him, cool and sparkling and not quite wet with that faint hint of _something_. Sherlock has almost forgotten what it feels like, those lights, for light pollution has become all too common and for all that he loves the sun – warm and dry and faintly pounding along with that thing that was not _something_ yet nor was it _not_ so – he’s spent too much time in it as of late.

As he relaxes Sherlock allows himself to think of the past week, of this last case.

A week of danger and false suicides, of tumblersand foreign code along with _her_.

A case that had started with Sebastian Wilkes and that lead to greedy bankers attempting to take what was already stolen, the prize being a jade pin. _Sherlock recalls that pin, bright and smooth and dazzling as the Emperors’ mistress worked it into her shinning blue-ebony hair, the token of her lover’s affection in full view for all to see._

The ones after the pin, the female general and her team of Black Lotus agents… human to be sure. Whomever was controlling them was not so, for that sash that had been wrapped around his throat had been soaked in Rosemary, causing his strength to instantly wan and his breath to be stolen, the way in which the fabric pulled tight around his throat unnecessary.

John.

John being brilliant and stupid, foolishly brave and so…. his friend all the while. Friend. Yes, that John was, despite his firm correction to Sebastian. _Collogue. The quick phrase, the quick denial causes a stab of hurt through Sherlock’s chest because he’d been so eager to prove to this arrogant bullying mortal from his past (one of the many whom thought him a freak, a spectacle, something less then human as he took in their secrets at a glance and when faced with scorn reveled them for all to know) , that he has a **friend** , even if his mind whispers that friend is not **just** what desires. _

John, whose lack of romantic interest in him could not be more clear. Sarah (and just the name sends a shiver of revulsion down Sherlock’s spine, that core of his nature whispering _wrong, wrong, so wrong_ ). John returning from the hospital – _it’s great, she’s great_ – John anxious to impress _her_ and go on a date with _her_ and have sex with _her._ For all that one half of his instincts told him to allow John to have her, to give in to his Mate’s desires the other half screamed that John was _his_. Even the lines concerning holy dread which ran through his mind, the Latin broken and choppy as it was, said it. Screamed it. Whispered it.  Trying to redirect John’s focus Sherlock suggested a date on impulse – and yes it was sincere, for even though it would have been related to the case he knew John would have enjoyed himself – only to be shot down and so Sherlock had followed them, jealously burning hot in his stomach and fangs itching to rip out this interlopers’ throat before staking his claim. (Sherlock does not like this feeling, for he knows that if John was not Mate then he would have been able to tolerate Sarah, as she was not entirely stupid or easily cowed). And when she and John had been taken, after his fear for John’s life had eased, Sherlock’s darker nature had caused him to wish for half a second that Sarah – the completion – had died even though that was not at all what Sherlock wished.

Footsteps sound up the fire escape, the high heeled tread quick and familiar, the scent accompanying them one of rain, snow, poppies and parchment is one that he knows all too well.

“What name are you going by tonight?” Sherlock asks without removing his gaze from the sky overhead.

“Ashley.” Anthea replies as she sits down beside him, her red silk dress and matching undergarments spread out across her knees.

“Where’s Mycroft and how is the lazy sod managing without you?”

“Vietnam, and he’s more then capable of working without me for three days.” Ashley says, her voice trailing off into a soft moan of contentment as she tilts her head back, relishing in the silver glow that falls upon her skin.

To anyone else this scene would be highly intimate. Two people naked in the moonlight, alone on a rooftop.  For Sherlock and Ashley, however, there is nothing sexual about it at all. For not only have each lived in cultures where nudity is the norm, but each are Mated and as such are simply not capable of desiring another. There is also the fact that they are siblings in all but blood, and have seen each-other clothed in naught but skin and blood far too often for there to be any lingering awkwardness.

“That doesn’t explain why you’re here. You can get this light in Sussex just fine.”

“Yes, but it’s not often that you request a blackout. What happened?”  Ashley gazes at him, eyes concerned and voice tight, and Sherlock knows that if he is in danger, if his life was threatened or mind toyed with, then her gun will be in her hand and her eyes will flash with bloodlust as her mind begins to weave out a spiders web. Just as he would do –and has done - for her.

Sherlock places a hand upon her knee _Calm yourself, sister,_ licking his lips as he revels the recent events. When he reaches the part about the strangulation attempt Ashley halts his story with a soft hiss, part anger and part concern. Quickly she places her fingers under his chin and tilts his head back, lightly touching his throat and examining it with a near expert eye.

“It’s a little red, but appears fine otherwise. You don’t have any trouble breathing, do you? Any weakness?”

Sherlock shakes his head as she releases him.

“No. I was only exposed for forty one seconds.”

“You do realize that, had the contact gone on for much longer, you wouldn’t be here to converse almost dying?” Ashley remarks, her voice dry and thick with disapproval.

“Yes I do, but-“

“Should I even bother to ask why you didn’t have this looked at before now? Isn’t that Hooper woman a witch whom, I would _assume_ , has a working knowledge of such herbs as well as the necessary treatment?”

Sherlock darts his eyes away. Of course he knows that, but with trying to convince Dimmock of the smuggling ring and manipulating Molly into allowing them access to the corpses he had not been able to spare the time it would take for an exanimation, hence his scarf. (and really, how had Molly not picked up on that remark about her hair? Lestrade has openly commented on her hair, as well as his preferred style which had happened to be the one she had been wearing it in, for months now. You would think she would have made the connection, for when has he, Sherlock Holmes, ever commented on or complimented her hairstyle?)

“My work took precedence, and you realize that whomever controls this particular sect of Black Lotus – “

“Knows whom and what you are, and is either toying with you or warning you off.”

“Correct.”

Ashley narrows her eyes at him.

“I wouldn’t advise looking to far into it, Sherlock. It could very well be a single occurrence, that is if you don’t go poking around. I’d exercise caution however, in any case.”

“Of course. I’m not an idiot, Ashley.”

“You’re stubborn, childish, and posses a huge ego. It all amounts to the same thing.”

“You realize you just described Mycroft?”

“Yes, but most of the time I like that about him.” Ashley says with a smile before abruptly becoming serious, her smile fading.

“Sherlock, about John-“

“Leave it!” His tone is sharp, enough so that most people would be scrambling for the door.

“You have to tell him at some point. You can’t go on pretending to be human forever, for he’s bound to notice that you don’t age. Plus he’s your Mate, Sherlock. You can’t ignore that.”

“I agree that informing John that we are of different species is… prudent, but from all of the evidence I’ve gathered John is strictly heterosexual. Therefore not only are any romantic feelings on his part impossible, but informing him of his status will only cause him distress.”

Ashley shakes her head.  “You and I both know that sexuality is fluid at best, and I highly doubt that however Mating works, it would not create the bond if there was no possibility of feelings being returned. After all isn’t it the sharing of emotions that  make reproduction more likely, regardless of the gender of the Mated pair?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Considering that John and I are both male it is unlikely that either of us will fall pregnant.”

“I never said that Mating was logical! I know that you’re aware two out of six Mated pairs are of the same gender, so don’t try that argument.”

“I told you to leave it. The decision is mine, and I will tell John as I deem appropriate.”

His tone books finitely and Ashley falls silent even though Sherlock knows she still has more to say.

They sit in silence for the remainder of the night, and just before the sun raises Ashley pulls on her clothes and squeezes his shoulder before walking away, her phone already in her hand.

She is calling Mycroft, telling him of the incident in Soo Lin’s flat and updating him on his status.

Sherlock remains on the roof a while longer before donning his clothing and descending the ladder to the entrance of 221B, having just enough time to make tea before John wakes.

Perhaps there will be no more talk of Sarah, at least for the morning.


	27. .21

 

.21

Mycroft, Sherlock is well aware, has been in a great many relationships. Mortals and immortals, woman and men. In some sex was the key factor, others held an element (or more) of genuine caring, and still others were simply for a way to pass a day or two without loneliness. Many had gone well whist others had not, and nearly all of them had attempted to figure it out. _If he liked woman or men, how could he like both and of course it mattered and had to be one or the other and didn’t he know what he was talking about?_ None of them lasted long, after that.

So when Sherlock sees that Mycroft is becoming serious about Anthea, when it is not just sex he desires but reading with her and holding her hand for seconds and minutes simply because, Sherlock can’t help but think that it will not end well.

When Sherlock sees that Mycroft is falling in love with Andrew, the man that calls DaVinci brilliant and the names the Church the fool’s congregation, the man whom is falling for Mycroft in return and that never _asks_ , Sherlock hopes that Mycroft knows what he is doing. 

After Sherlock happens upon them one night, Mycroft bright eyed and heating up a kettle of blood while Anthea lay still tangled in the sheets, Claim marks showing stark on both their necks, Sherlock thinks that Mycroft has gotten it right this time.

 

******************

Their first human wedding occurs many centuries latter, simply a formality because documentation has become required, and neither of them are nothing if not current. They are joined in a courthouse in France, Sherlock knows.

Anthea wore a plain white dress and a string of pearls, and Mycroft wore white and blue strip of silk.

Mycroft checked his pocket watch, white gold and two centuries old, waiting for him to arrive, while Anthea smoked a cigarette for the first time in forty years.

Mycroft poured milk into their coffee and kept a gun on the table, just in case.

They finally stood before a mortal and said their vows and slipped on rings (unnecessary but required all the same), singing their signatures with a flourish, Mycroft’s influence allowing the single A to remain unfinished.

They spent two days honeymooning in Norway before the bombs falling on Hiroshima hadcalled them back.

Sherlock knows all of this simply because he knows them, not because he was present at the wedding. Sherlock did not attend for at the time he was slipping another needle beneath his skin.


	28. .22

 

.22

His stomach hurts. It’s been a year since Mummy and Father were killed and he knows that Mycroft is trying, but this cave is too warm and he misses his scrolls and Mummy’s stories and all of the humans have bad blood so they can’t drink from them and his stomach _hurts_ so bad.

He opens his eyes. When did he close them?

Mycroft is leaning over him, his face gaunt and eyes grim, his too long hair brushing his shoulders. Mycroft’s stomach hurts too even though he pretends it doesn’t. Stupid to pretend. Stupid of Mycroft to try to force more of that fruit juice mixed with animal milk down his throat because when the smell hits him – too sweet and cloying and stick to your throat frothy – Sherlock’s stomach twists and he pushes the bowl away from his mouth, spilling some of it onto the stone floor.

Sherlock expects Mycroft to be angry, for they had to travel a long way to find those animals and berries. There’s a drought too, you see, so most of the plants have died and the animals have left. It was hard work getting that mixture.

But Mycroft doesn’t say anything, just looks even more worried as Sherlock curls into a fetal position, as if that will cease the pain of starvation that is eating awayat his stomach.

Sherlock can feel himself drifting off and he struggles to keep his eyes open for he doesn’t want to loose sight of his brother. Mycroft’s hand cradles his face. It’s dry and warm with rough calluses and bones that are too close to the skin. Sherlock, in his starvation induced weariness, rubs his face against it, and Mycroft does not pull away.

When Sherlock next wakes Mycroft has three humans with him. Three children with tear streaked faces and wide eyes and Father said they must never eat from children but their blood doesn’t smell bad.

Mycroft has to support his brother against his chest, has to force the small neck down to Sherlock’s mouth and hold the human there despite its struggles, for Sherlock is too weak to do so himself. The fact that Mycroft himself is almost too weak to do so is irreverent, as is the fact that he took just enough blood from the human mother to keep himself from collapsing before running back, carrying the forbidden meals with him.

One by one the children are drained to withered husks and as Sherlock falls asleep it is with his stomach not hurting as he leans against Mycroft’s chest.


	29. .23

.23

 

Sherlock cracks the whip against the horses back, prompting the animals to move faster. From inside the carriage below him Motzart shouts in indignation, having spilled his dinner across the floor as his transport rocks and jerks along.

 Sherlock rolls his eyes. Honestly! He knows that his employer is suffering from a rash from too many nights with the local whores, but does doing so also increase his level of foolishness? How in the hell is the state of the road and his passenger’s lack of common sense _his_ fault?


	30. .24

 

.24

“Why me? Look at you. You could have anybody.”

Those are the first words that Sherlock hears as he arrives in front of the Mycroft’s’ townhome. It is Mycroft speaking, the words drifting clearly through the open window. The words are quiet, sincere in a way that they so rarely are, and Sherlock knows that something must have occurred. Something minor yet dangerous or troubling enough for him to wonder why his Mate chose a life of danger and high end position with him when she could have chosen someone – _anyone-_  else, and spent the entirety of her life in safety.

The slight rustle of fabric sounds and the smells of human blood and sex reach his nose, and Sherlock doesn’t need to see to know that they have just finished claiming each other once again. That Anthea (Anthea it is for Sherlock cannot smell the odor of her chest binder) is wearing Mycroft’s’ dress shirt and Mycroft a sheet. She will be on her back and he on his side, facing her. They will hold heavy mugs in their hands, and the steam will rise up in thick coils from the ruby liquid within only to fade away into the air.

There is silence for a moment. Anthea, perhaps, contemplating everything that she could say.

_Because you bought me a Sphinx even though you claim that you can’t stand cats._

_You notice everything, and really, how could I not be drawn to that?_

_Because you’ve ceased to play the piano when I’m trying to sleep._

_You respect my need for space but are always there should I need you._

_Because of those bowls you used to carve for me, back then._

_You don’t care about my scars._

_Because you put up with me humming in the shower and reorganizing your books and aren’t surprised when I carry a gun._

_You never thought that there was nothing I could not do, even though society told me otherwise._

_Because you take me out for walks and plays and book readings when you think I’ve been working too much, but I have to fight you tooth and nail to get you to do the same._

_The way that you look at me._

_You don’t care what I’m wearing, what ends up on the floor; silk and lace, two sets of ties and cotton shorts, stockings and garters or two pairs of pants and more than one dress shirt. It doesn’t matter to you, anymore then whom it is that you smile at or hunt with and discuss policies or foreign affairs and take to bed, whom you see and stand beside and wake up next to each morning. Andrew or Anthea (Liam or Belle), both are the same to you, for **I** am the same to you._

_Because for every time that my mother slapped me, you’ve smiled at me._

Yes, Anthea could say all of this and more.

Instead she says, “Be logical. It had to be you.”

It is said around a smile. Said simply and calmly and is no less the truth.

Sherlock quietly turns away as the mugs are set on the side table with a muffled thunk.

He can come back latter.


	31. .25

 

.25

It is cold down here in the dungeons where he and Mycroft have been thrown for trespassing. The rough iron collar scrapes against Sherlock’s throat, causing small, bleeding cuts to form. Against the wall Mycroft is shivering, his lips and fingers turning blue. The thin blanket their captors provided is not enough. Body heat might help, this Sherlock knows.

Sherlock dose not take into account that he himself is turning numb, that only four hours ago he’d been angry at Mycroft, or that his twelve year old body is nowhere big enough. Lifting up the blanket he lies down, wrapping his limbs around Mycroft’s form. At some point they fall asleep and the shivering dissipates, but Sherlock does not let go.


	32. 8

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

John picks up the papers scattered about the flat, the writing upon them rarely in English. Writing that speaks of caves and rolling hills, writing that John now disregards as more of his friends’ eccentric behavior. Writing that Sherlock wants to revel is meant for him. For John. Always for him. He never does.

 

****************

When John finds out about his true nature it is relatively dull, considering.

John wakes up one morning about three weeks after the case of _The Blind Banker_ (or so John titles it in his blog) to find Sherlock sitting at the table reading the paper and drinking a large mug full of hot blood.

Unfortunately this was not a deliberate act, for Sherlock had grown comfortable enough around John that he had forgotten himself, and upon realizing what he had done Sherlock had stared at John in faint horror. This was not something that could be explained away as having an odd flatemate, and judging by the increasing paleness of John’s skin as Sherlock opened his mouth to try to explain, the revelation of his fangs was not helping matters.

Of course Mycroft chose that moment to walk into the flat, umbrella swinging at his side. As soon as he saw the scene in front of him Mycroft quickly guided John into a chair, a frown crossing his face.

“Really, Sherlock. You  couldn’t think of a more delicate way to tell John that we are Vampire?”

“I hadn’t told him yet, _Mycroft_!” Sherlock hissed, glaring at his brother.

John went even paler, if it were possible.

What followed was two hours of assuring John that they were not joking, large amounts of tea being consumed, answering questions and clearing up John’s so called “knowledge” of vampires that had been shoved down his throat by the media,  and telling him repeatedly  that _no_ they had not somehow hypnotized him into staying in the flat.

“Well, this sure explains a few things.” John said after drinking his fifth cup of tea.

“Excellent. Well my time is pressing, so I must be going.” Mycroft left as quickly as possible.

There was silence for a few minutes, both of them staring at each-other.

“Now that you know, John, do you mind if we get rid of the juicer? I despise fruit juice in such large quantities.”

“I don’t see a problem with that.”

“Good. I’m getting rid of those nicotine patches. They are utterly pointless.”

“I thought you were trying to quit?”

“No, that was just a necessary pretence. The fact that I am unable to get cancer renders the main intention of the patches meaningless.”

“As long as those cigarettes aren’t harming you I don’t see why you should stop smoking them.”

“Can I smoke _in_ the flat?”

“I thought you said that they’re full of plants that would kill me?”

“Don’t be dull, John. They are perfectly harmless to you as long as you don’t smoke them yourself.”

“Still a no.”

 

*****************

“So where all have you been? Ever been out of London?” John inquires that very night.

_Germany_

_Iraq_

_France_

_China_

_America_

_Egypt_

_Jamaica_

_Australia_

_Alaska_

_Spain_

_Hundreds and hundreds more, places whose names have been lost to time, their landscape to human intervention and natural disasters, the location upon maps no longer accurate._

 “Yes. Quite frequently, in fact.”

Raised eyebrows. “Well? Care to share? It’s fine if you don’t want to.” The last part is hastily added, sincere for all that it is spit out in one breath.

Sherlock sips his tea, no longer paying mind to the faint tingling in his mouth that indicates the liquid is scalding enough to blister. No need for pretense now, after all.

A brief deliberation. Where to start?

“When I was in the area that would latter be termed Mexico, I encountered a tribe of people. One of their sole interesting traits was that they practiced ritualized cannibalism…”

 

*************

_Milk, heating over the fire._

_A ball made of twine._

_A high pitched shriek, the sound not one of fear._

Sherlock wakes briefly before rolling over once again. In the morning he drinks tea with John and finishes John’s crossword, the dream only a faint recollection.

 

**************

 

John is ill. Nothing more then the flu, but Sherlock still worries nevertheless. He makes John tea and forces him to lie down, and when John shivers in his sleep Sherlock rubs his back, muttering those words of sunless seas and rivers that were girdled round  over and over again. It appears to calm him, for John stops shivering.


	33. .26

 

.26

Mycroft’s fangs flash and Sherlock responds in kind, ignoring the urge to submit in the face of his elder’s wrath.


	34. .27

 

.27

They are not supposed to be climbing this tree, for the branches are very large and covered in ice. Mummy and Father said so. They are doing it anyway. As Sherlock climbs after Mycroft his foot slips, but he’s barley had any time to fall before Mycroft catches his hand and quickly heaves him up, his grip tight around his brother’s hand.

 


	35. .28

 

.28

Women cannot do figures, they say.

They must be shielded from the “harsher” side of life, from war and bloodshed and the “tendencies” of men.

Mortals claim that men can plan war but sewing is beyond them.

That their desire for control is absolute and they are always, always, strong.

Many of the immortals thought that when males laughed it was a cause for concern, but that when females did it there was nothing to worry about, for they are always laughing.

 

Well.

Anthea has bloodied her dagger until the blade gleams black and Andrew can swear like a sailor and each have administered poison and drawn up battle plans and disemboweled the countries’ ruler in his sleep. Andrew has sat by Mycroft’s side and smoked and thrown back shots while Anthea has doled out cards with a practiced hand while laughing a deep throated laugh and spun words and equations and spider webs complicated enough to make the quickest of minds spin.

Mycroft, if he so desired, can weave and spin and sew and select fabrics with an expert eye.

Mycroft is often in control, except when he is not. When being the British Government takes its toil and the meetings are one right after the other and yet another attempt on his life is made. When his fangs come out and he desires to rip out throats and his eyes alone say _enough_. That is when Anthea makes him sit as she brushes the inside of his wrist and takes care of things with a few strokes of her pen.

Andrew and Anthea (him and her, sister and brother, the suit wearer and stocking donner) maintain an acceptable level of control most of the time. Breaking wrists and dealing with governmental leaders and firing off words and buttons and orders with machine fire precision as well as a host of other things that do not bare mentioning. When it is too much and their hands give them away (stiff as they pluck at this hem or that and say _stop it, stop it now_ ) Mycroft will grant an hour or two off (or eight or ten) before cupping Andrew’s face or mentioning some new tie pins that he knew had caught Anthea’s eye or requesting that tea to be brought into the office and unless the city has exploded that all messages be placed on hold.

When Mycroft laughs, when his grim expression falters, it is not a cause for worry, Sherlock knows. (Except, of course, when it is). When his Mate laughs, long and low with fangs exposed, then it _is_ a cause for worry (or full fledged fear, whichever you prefer).

So, Sherlock occasionally thinks, if mortals claim that men are this way while woman cannot do this, and immortals assume that this is the truth, and two vampires (one male and the other both and the same) prove that it is not so in every sense of the word…. well it really begs the question of whom the idiots are, doesn’t it?


	36. .29

 

.29

It is summer. Owls and bats fly overhead, their wings beating softly. Far away animals dash through the forest: deer and rabbits, foxes, voles, mice and wolves, and a bear further away still. Insects and small reptiles scuttle in the ground beneath them. The humans are quiet in their village, deep breathing of sleep the only sound, those strange noises silent for once.

The sky is cloudy tonight, the absence of the moon and stars casting a faint gray glow over the land. Sherlock lies with his arms and head across Mycroft’s stomach, whose hand is resting in the middle of his back. Mummy sits crosslegged before him and Mycroft, having just finished a tale about a changeling girl whom was given to a family because they angered the forest spirits by cutting down the trees. Father, whom is lying on the ground beside them with his head brushing Mummy’s hip, snorts through his nose.

“What?” Mummy asks as she turns her head to face him.

“I hope you don’t expect them to believe that human folktale, Violet.”  Daddy remarks without opening his eyes.

Mummy waves her hand at him impatiently. “Oh, yes, yes. Everybody lies and religion is for the feeble minded. We know. Besides, Siger, I am perfectly aware that neither of our sons believe my tales.”

“So why do you persist?”

“Because I happen to enjoy it.” Mummy says airily, turning to face him and Mycroft once more.

Smiling at them she launches into a tale about Artimesis and Apollo, the twins that ruled the moon and sun.

Sherlock glances at Father out of the corner of his eye, knowing that Mycroft is doing the same. In spite of his pervious words Father is still, listening intently even as his lips turn up in amusement. Without pause Mummy reaches down and tugs lightly at Father’s hair.

Mummy continues with her tale and soon starts another, her words joined by the scent of flowers carried to them upon the wind.


	37. 9

 

 

CHAPTER NINE

 

It started with the dreams. Dreams of the conversation going differently, of not ending after John refused the cigarettes but rather leading to laughter and John touching his hand and then, sometimes John is kissing him. Kissing him with hands framing his face and Sherlock pushes him against the counter and moans as he lowers his mouth to John’s throat… only to have John push him away, his eyes angry and afraid and disgusted all at once. Other times it is simply a confusing jumble of blood and bodies and hands holing tea and smiles and green jumpers floating in space.

It makes it all the harder to look at John in the morning.

Sleeping becomes difficult after that.

Slowly his nights began to be plagued by insomnia, John breathing peacefully in the upstairs bedroom. When John awakens Sherlock feigns having slept, making comments about the paper that he is reading with half an eye and brushing off John’s halfhearted complaints about the violin music that had floated up the stairs at one in the morning.

Soon a heavy weight creeps into his limbs, and eyes like lead that are stabbed by too bright a sun. John notices, of course. Eyes tracking him and hands shooting out to catch him when he stumbles over an nonexistent crack in the pavement (and once or twice Sherlock may have faked a stumble just to feel John’s arm around his shoulders), suggesting naps on the sofa, insisting that this case or this lead can wait an hour. In order to appease John Sherlock fakes having napped, laying down and then popping back up again thirty minutes latter, sleep either evading him completely or stealing upon him in short, hazy increments. (Only once is his sleep genuine. When John is sitting next to him and he wakes with his head pillowed on his Mate’s thighs, his nose pressed against his flat stomach as, even in sleep, his body sought out John’s scent).

When he does manage to fall asleep properly during the night (once in a three week stretch), aside from a few flickers of a blonde hair and steaming red, it is _the_ dreams that come again. He must have cried out (durring the most recent one, at least) because John shakes him awake at 3 am, eyes worried and head mussed, offering tea or talking or just sitting there.

Sherlock refuses, sending John back to bed for he must be at the hospital early that day. What John doesn’t know, as Sherlock utters a low groan and slips his hand beneath his waistband to grip himself, is not only that _nightmare_ was the furthest context of the dream, but that as Sherlock bites a hole in his palm to stifle his cry as he comes (his release empty and unsatisfying), his face buried in John’s oatmeal jumper, the last thing that Sherlock wanted was for John to leave.

*********

Food has become unappealing. He is simply not hungry, regardless of how he has not consumed a drop of blood in a month.

When Sherlock does make himself eat the liquid, which would normally have been flavorful and thirst quenching and so _so_ good,  goes down dry and tasteless. Like water would if it was red wine. He has to force himself to sallow.

He is loosing weight, not enough for John to comment on, but enough so that his clothes hang more loosely, enough that he can now pull his coat a few centimeters tighter across his frame. Enough for his scarf to allow a few drafts of air to hit his neck. Enough for Mycroft to tap his foot and Anthea to comment worriedly on the dryness of his skin.

The only blood that appeals to him is John’s, but not in the manner of a man desperate for food. No. With increasing frequency Sherlock will find himself staring at John’s pulse, at the steady beat of his neck and wrist. As he stares, the _urge_ will rise sharply within him and his mind will cloud and he will rush from the flat. He will ignore John’s shouts and the demand that he go back beating in his blood, continuing to walk faster as he fights to not press John against the wall and simply _take_.

( _And how many times as he wanted that?_

_How often has he crept into John’s room at night and watch him sleep, thinking about scenting that neck?_

_Of breathing in John’s scent and licking, kissing that vein running thick with blood?_

_Of allowing his fangs to pierce the skin, ever so slightly for John cannot heal as can he,  and drinking down the crimson liquid?_

_How often has he imagined John’s reaction, of his Mate groaning in pleasure and arching his neck in invitation, of taking hold of Sherlock’s neck to pull him closer, his body covering his?_

_He’s lost count. He has truly, truly lost count._ )

It is not new, that urge that is sometimes savage in its intensity.

Every day Sherlock feels it, the urge to Claim. To mark John as his.

It beats against his mind and invades his thoughts, causes his fangs to itch with the need to bury them within skin and his vision to cloud as his violin nearly shatters in his hand.

He ignores it.

John comes back from the hospital, from a date with Sarah, his smile easy and eyes warm and body no doubt satisfied and Sherlock feels the nonexistent bile rise in his throat at the thought of _that_ and he…

Always ignores it.

 

***********

His concentration has started to wane. Not severely, just a little.

Enough for his mind to go off on a new deduction of passerby or a new member of the Forensic team when he should be focusing on the body in front of him.

Enough that Lestrade has looked at him oddly once or twice, for Anderson to snicker as he stumbles over a phrase.

Enough that when Mrs. Hudson finally bullies him over for tea and biscuits Sherlock, just for a moment, allows his hand to linger over sweet boxes, unsure if Mrs. Hudson asked for the chocolate digestives or the apple.

Enough that, when he speaks the poem aloud in an effort to calm himself, and right in the middle of the sentence he forgets what he is saying John easily picks up the slack for him, effortlessly reciting the words of demon lovers back to him.

It is enough.

 

********

When he buys them…

When he buys them from the elderly Werefox down in Manchester…

He feels sick.

When he hides them in his inner coat pocket, the cherry wood of the box hard against his chest, the heavy glass inside adding an extra weight…

He feels elated.

As he carries the box about the flat, hearing the liquid swish inside the vial, searching for a place to hide them….

He is afraid.

When he sets the box on his bed and his fingers hover over the clasp, thinking of opening it just to look, nothing more…

He feels compelled.

When his feet carry him to John’s room without his heed, picturing the look on his face should John know, and just for a single instant not giving a danm…

He is empty.

When he carves a small space in the wall next to John’s window, just large enough to slip the box inside, and carefully plasters it back up so no trace can be found..

He feels regret.

When John comes home an hour latter, complaining about his day and offering him tea and yelling about the hand inside the freezer and _not_ finding him like _that_ …

He is relieved.

Two nights latter, when John goes to a movie with Sarah…

He wants to dig them out.

As he stands in front of the space where they hide, where he put them so he could not get at them so that his resolve would not falter..

He wants to say

_stop it_

_I love you_

_stop her_

_I need you_

_stop them_

_why don’t you_

_have me_

_not enough_

_let me_

_take me_

_want me_

_help me_

He does not.

 

**********

Sherlock collapsed today.

His heart stuttered (again, once again, twice again, nineteen, thirty, fifty times again).

His vision swirled ( twelve time, fourteenth time, sixtieth, ninetieth, two hundredth time).

He dropped the alegi sample due to shaking hands ( tremor, constant, drop the skull and the cereal and the swirled snail shell, apply pressure to hold the cup down see there’s nothing, hold it up and watch the skin flinch and muscles jitter before your eyes).

When he woke up he cleaned up the blood, making sure to get the corner of the counter where his head struck, the wound already healed.

John was not home and Mrs. Hudson was asleep.

Sherlock does not tell anyone, for he already knows the cause.

Knows the implications.

 

************

 

Next is the case, or rather the refusal of a case.

 The explosion happens across the street and Mycroft arrives less then an hour after the windows break, mouth tight and eyes worried even though his concern is unwarranted and unwanted (and surly there is more important things for Mycroft to be doing) Sherlock knows that his brother is here to stay. Mycroft picks up a book and sits in the chair, alternating between reading and conversing with Anthea and various governments.

(At some point Sherlock falls asleep, so he does not know that Mycroft leaves his chair. That he takes his brother’s head in his hands and tilts it gently from side to side, cataloguing the hue of his skin. That he takes his pulse and lightly pinches his skin, frowning when he understands the results. That he moves silently about the flat, looking and pausing and sniffing the air and the clothes and the drainage pipe, trying to find it, trying to find them).

Sherlock wakes at dawn and Mycroft is still there, remaining so when John comes rushing home from a night with _her_ (and for once Sherlock was glad that John was out of the flat). Mycroft takes in his brother’s Mate and revels that John slept on the sofa instead of having sex with Sarah – it’s a relief and Mycroft knows it as he eyes him, pity and anger for him swirling in his eyes - _just tell him Sherlock, honestly, it’s only going to get worse if you don’t . How’s the diet, Mycroft? Fine. Laying off the fat people, you know their blood is the sweetest after all.–_ before trying to make him take a case involving one of his careless M16 employees.

 

***********

Then there is the case. The case that is really a game wrapped up in a ribbon of smoke and death _and yes it’s marvelous and brilliant_ even though human morals all around him scream that it should not be so. A game involving bombers, hostages, and messages of five pips. A pair of trainers belonging to a dead child – how is Carl Powers involved, how? - , a mortal running from his life and a TV host with too much plastic in her vines. Next is the old woman whom died because she was foolish enough to speak of the one whom is toying with him, to speak of the creature that is hidden amongst the shadows. This death, this woman… yes Sherlock regrets it. He is aware that he should not, that he should keep a clear head and his emotions locked away, but as the woman speaks the faces of all the elderly woman that have ever been kind to him flash through his minds’ eye ( _Emma, Nancy, and Parvati. The old beggar woman, Carla, and Miss Rodeguez. The shopkeeper, Clamandy Jane, the hobbled slave woman, and the whore that used to walk Baker Street. Mrs. Turner, Miss Jacobs and Mrs. Hudson and Harriet Tubman)  -_ and Sherlock cannot help but regret it.

After, when they are watching the telly and discussing the bomber and John catches the whisper of _yes, oh yes amazing_ within his voice John becomes angry with him, for he thinks that Sherlock is enjoying these mortal’s deaths, that he admires the game that is being played. It is true and yet is not, for Sherlock admires the mind behind the execution but to necessarily not the game itself, for it is a rare thing indeed, to encounter a mind that can match his own. As for the deaths? There are thousands of human deaths every day, and these people have not met a fate that is any different than all the rest. It is pointless to care about the lives of strangers, of ones that you’ve never seen and therefore had no chance of saving. You can’t care about everyone, for you will go mad if you do.  Sherlock does not like that John is disappointed with him but he cannot change his view, and anyway it is ridiculous that John is trying to dig up heroes, for heroes do not exist and even if they did he, Sherlock, is the last individual anyone would call a hero.

There is no time to dwell on this because a body is found and there is another pip, this time along with a false painting and a child hostage and the reappearance of name that was spoken by a cabbie.

************

After they have located the flashdrive, he and John, that is when things shift. Not shift in any direction that could be detected by mortal eyes, by mortal ears. In fact it is just the slightest change in the air, like when a shooting star rains down its light. Sherlock feels it the second the sends the message to this Mastermind, informing them that he wishes to meet at the pool where Carl Powers died.

When Sherlock arrives there is nothing but the typical scent of poisoned water and old sweat lingering in the air… and then that scent hits him. Oranges and earth and wool all swirling around the sun and then John comes into sight ( _his John_ ) and Sherlock feels his world stop.

Feels it stop and then spin and tilt on its axis and _Nononono not John using me not cleaver enough_ and he will get John help, will get Mycroft’s professionals and make Molly use rat bones and clover along with dust and granite to determine the cause and if this web of smoke and mirrors and gore _make the puzzles and watch me dance_ and screams is truly what his Mate needs then Sherlock will try to provide it because he can do it he can and –

John is speaking, _Evening Sherlock._ _Didn’t expect this did you? Quite the turn out isn’t it?_ the words taunting but his voice… his voice is steady and robotic with fear lying just under the surface. And then John opens the parka and this time Sherlock’s world does not stop. It grinds to a halt and implodes even as the Pookas laugh their death laugh and it flies off like an arrow from a bow as a growl rumbles in his chest because strapped to John’s chest is a _bomb_.

It is one thing to threaten _him_ , to riddle with _him_ and mock _him_ and make _him_ into a puppet, but his Mate is another matter. John is off limits and John is his but he can’t do anything because he’s fast but he’s not faster then a goddam bomb or a snipers rifle but he will still rip out those throats with his teeth and shove spears into their stomachs and John is still being made to speak _I can stop John Watson too, stop his heart – Stop it! Stop it!_

Stop it does.

“I gave you my number. I thought you might call.”

The voice echoes from the back of the pool, odd and high and sing-song.

A man steps out, pale skin with dark hair slicked back and dressed in an expensive Westwood suit, only he is not a man. It is Jim, Molly’s gay boyfriend ( _high underwear and gel in his hair and Sherlock is instantly on edge because even though his scent of ash and metal and fog is not exactly threatening there is something that Sherlock cannot put his finger on, something that causes a shiver runs through him_ ). Only it appears that he is not gay at all, that he is this mastermind  behind the game and that he is wicked and insane… and he is a vampire.

He is a vampire that used hemlock to disguise his scent ( _that’s what it was, back in the lab. that thing that made his hair stand on end_ ). Nor is he just any Vampire. He is an elder. Sherlock feels his muscles grow even tighter as his fangs began to itch for although he longs to attack this man he cannot, because if he did he would rip the heart out of his chest. He cannot for killing an elder is one of their most ancient laws, one that is woven into their bones and flowing through their blood and tingling in the back of their minds and it can no more be violated then can gravity fail to keep them anchored to the earth.

No. Sherlock cannot kill him, but he can threaten. So he pulls out his British Browning – the one that is loaded with dissolvable bullets that contain a silver core, pointless now – and aims it. Despite his rage and fear and the need to shove John from the building and feel his pulse beating against his fingers Sherlock’s’ hands are steady, his aim unwavering and eyes slabs of ice. Just as they were when he held the the Bagh nakh, the Bullwhip, and the Madu. The Falchion, the slingshot and Ulfberht and thousands more

“Jim Moriatry. Hiii.”

Moriatry walks slowly towards him and John, taunting him with his failed deductions and not the least bit afraid. For the snipers are under his control. For there is a bomb strapped to John’s chest. For he has lured, him, Sherlock, here and quite possibly beaten him. For _the law_ is protecting him.

Moriatry is the one with the power here, and he knows it well.

He does not hesitate to use it either, this consulting criminal. He walks closer and closer to John, egging Sherlock on and smiling when his voice wavers, shaking despite himself. (Despite himself Sherlock cannot prevent himself from glancing at John _alive alright is he alright_ and his Mate appears calm even though his eyes are watchful and heart is pounding against his ribs and his muscles are tighter then a bowstring for his soldier’s training has no doubt come back with a vengeance)…. and Moriatry is smug and gleeful as he allows his fangs to be seen, the challenge crystal clear, for he knows that his nerves are shaken and that he has taken what does not belong to him.

Taken what, and whom, their kind will kill for. Taken a Vampire’s life, which he now holds in the palm of his hands.

He is insane.

And when John lunges at this elder, when his body is pressed against his back and _Run Sherlock!_ Sherlock heart nearly stops and his body turns to ice, for he is expecting Moriatry to turn faster then John eyes can track. Expects him to turn and _yank_ , leaving John to fall, gasping and chocking and still alive even as blood spurts through the gapping hole in his throat. _Back off, John! Back off!_ But he does not turn and Sherlock does not leave _will not, cannot_ , even though John is begging him as Moriatry laughs, calling his Mate a pet and when John freezes and looks at him with poorly concealed fear Sherlock knows that the snipers light is pointed at his head.

Thankfully John releases Moriatry, whom it appears, no longer enjoys Sherlock interfering with his games.

 “I want you to leave me alone. Do you know what happens if you don’t?” Moriatry says, suddenly serious and with all trace of mirth gone from his voice.

“Oh let me guess. I get _killed_.” Sherlock knows that is not all that Moriatry will do, all that he can do, but he hopes that if he gives him that option, if he offers him this and keeps his voice cold and uninterested (if he denies him a reaction, for reaction is what this man craves) Moriatry will take his life instead of John’s.

The bait is not taken.

“If you don’t stop prying I will burn you. I will burn the _heart_ out of you.”

“I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one.”

“Well we both know that’s not quite true.” His voice is quite. Deadly in a way that it has not been before. And John can hear this, John is here with the bomb so surly he must know that it is because he is Sherlock’s heart… but he does not know that he is his _heart_ and therefore what his abduction truly means.

That rage? The fire burning rage inside of his chest, the same rage that causes nations to fall to their knees? It has become ice. And ice is more deadly then fire by far.

“I _will_ stop you.” He will stop him before Moriatry touches another hair on his Mate’s head, before he threatens another beat of John Watson’s heart. It is a promise, and he never makes promises lightly.

“What if I were to shoot you now? Right now?” he steps forward, the ice propelling him and as he tries to pull the trigger, mentally cursing and swallowing a hiss when the law prevents it. Prevents him from ending this creature’s life.

“Well then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face. And I would be surprised Sherlock, really I would” – _surprised that you could overcome something woven into the very fabric of our being which is impossible, don’t you know that my dear_ – “and also the tiniest bit disappointed.”  _This is still a game  sweetheart, and I can make you dace the waltz or the twirl the Nutcracker or spin around and around on your head, so you’d better keep me entertained and stay out of my way or your Mate, your  little pet, will go up in flames._

It happens quickly after that.

Moriatry leaves and then he is there in front of John, his hands fumbling and stomach clenching as John gasps and shakes above him

“Are right? Are you alright!?” Sherlock knows that his voice is frantic and that his fangs are still out, that John almost certainly has had enough of fangs, but he’s too busy smelling for blood and working off the death trap while listening for Moriatry to pay any concern to what John wants right now.

And what’s more, as he slings the coat away and dashes into the locker room for a split second before dashing back to his Mate’s side _can’t leave him alone, mustn’t leave him_   he begins to feel an odd feeling in his body along with a… pressure in his mind.

_He looks so perfect, his Mate does, lying there on the floor. Perfect and complaint and trusting…_

“That thing that you tried to do – that was-uh-good.” _Good but stupid. So utterly, utterly stupid of you, John._

_So utterly trusting…_

“Well, I’m glad no one saw that.” John gasps from his place on the floor. “You tearing off my clothes in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.”

_What is wrong with that, John?_

Sherlock tries to smile but it feels fixed, frozen and painted on.

“People do little else.”

_Let them talk._

_So utterly his… and yet not his_

All of a sudden there begins a faint twitching of his muscles and an itching in his throat as his thoughts began to spin and the urge to Claim is raising within him, stronger then it has ever been before, demanding that he sink his teeth into John’s neck and drink down his blood and take him right there upon the floor because John is _his_  - not Sarahs’ or some worthless mortal male on the street and most certainly _never_ James Moriatry’s – and someone tried to take him and _never again_ and so he need to make it clear to all others that John is not to be Claimed by them for he is _Sherlock’s –_

Moriatry comes back. The threat and the interloper has returned – _You can’t be allowed to continue, you simply can’t –_ juggle the balls and drop the pins and laugh the Boggart’s laugh and scream the Banshee’s scream  – _I’m sure my answer’s crossed yours_ – destroy and burn and crimson flowing over Westwood and silver death transforming the red – and there’s a phone call and _Say that again!_ and the danger to his Mate is walking away and his Mate is safe now, safe and _hishishishis_

 

The world goes black.


	38. .30

 

.30

It is funny. This Empire, with its power and riches and influence, considers itself to be unconquerable. So had the Empire before it, the one that had fallen. They all fall, these mortal Empires. This one will fall as well, in time.


	39. 10

Chapter Ten

 

When Sherlock comes to it is quiet.

Quiet is good.

Quiet is nice.

Quiet is…

_Bomb_

_Pool_

_The challenge crystal clear_

_Burn the heart_

_John_

Sherlock sits bolt upright with a strangled gasp, fear coursing through him and he’s halfway to his feet before he sees him. Before he sees John asleep in the chair opposite him.

In a leather chair next to a low burning, Renaissance fireplace.

His fear is fading quickly now, for Sherlock knows where they are even without the scent of ebony, cinnamon, and cranberries that fills the surrounding air.

He and John are at Mycroft’s home in Sussex, his study to be more exact.

Sherlock looks to his right to find Mycroft sitting in a chair watching him, eyes alert and grave and his gray three piece suit impeccable despite the lateness of the hour.

“Don’t look at me like that, Mycroft. I’m fine.” His voice comes out harshly, as if he’s swallowed a mouthful of sand.

“Oh you are, are you?”

“Yes.”

Mycroft raises his eyebrows and steeples his fingers together in his lap, polished leather shoes placed flat and buried deep within the thick, jewel toned Persian rug.

“Well, according to Dr. Watson, whom sounded quite frantic when he called me, you collapsed after facing down a fellow Vampire. Based on John’s depiction of tonight’s events, this James Moriatry was an Elder, was he not?”

At the mention of his name Sherlock tenses, just slightly. Even so he knows that Mycroft has seen.

“If you need to ask then you really must be slipping.”

Mycroft nods absently, undeterred.

“I thought as much, when John said that you refrained from so much as attacking him. That law can be very troublesome, can it not?”

Sherlock nods wordlessly, eyes flickering over the dark spines of the books lining the walls, raising up to the ceiling, the polished mahogany upon which they rest gleaming gold in the dim light.

“I trust that you are aware that you needn’t worry? I have my best looking for him, Sherlock. He will be apprehended quickly.”

“The thought never crossed my mind that you would do otherwise.”

There is silence for a few moments but for the fire crackling, and when Mycroft next speaks a faint hint of disapproval colors his tone.

“You might have bothered to inform John of basic vampire anatomy, Sherlock. Until I assured him that twelve heart beats per minute was normal for our kind, he was convinced that you were on death’s door.”

John.

Unbidden Sherlock’s eyes fly back to his Mate, anxious to make sure that John is still in front of him. That he is here and safe and that he will not be taken from him again.

“Now. About your collapse –“

“Leave it alone, Mycroft!”

“No Sherlock, I will not.” His tone is steel incased in velvet. The elder’s voice. The voice of the King and the blade wielder and the brother whom has had enough. Listening is mandatory. Auguring is pointless.  

This does not prevent Sherlock from rising from the sofa and pacing the room, crossing from the heavy wooden desk in the corner and back again, finally halting in front of the thick velvet drapes that cover the windows.

“You collapsed because your Mate was threatened. He was stolen from you and nearly killed and yet, once again, you denied your urge to Claim him. What’s more, you’ve been denying it for months. How often have you wanted to taste his blood? To scent him? To claim him as yours so that all others may know?”

_While he is sleeping, before he leaves the flat to be surrounded by others. When he makes tea or is angry with me. Every day. Tonight. Right now._

Sherlock clenches his hands, still facing the drapes.

“The number of times is irrelevant –“

“A hundred, or a thousand perhaps?” Mycroft cuts in, voice on the verge of a humorless laugh.

There is silence for a moment before Mycroft speaks again, the slightest tremor riding along his words.

“How ill is it making you, Sherlock?”

Silence, for even though Sherlock could come up with a witty retort he knows there is no point. Not when the one interrogating him has known him for over five thousand years. Not when he is _right_.

“You are pale, sleeping less. You have lost weight so I would guess that you are not eating, at least not properly. You’re attention was diverted to my library as I was speaking, so your concentration is slipping. Even from here I can detect the tremors in your hands, in your muscles. The other day at the flat your heart rate was erratic and the lack of elasticity to your skin showed evidence of dehydration. If this was the first time you collapsed Sherlock, I would be very surprised indeed.”

John’s steady breathing is the only sound in the room, the wind a distant whistle in the trees outside. Downstairs Anetha moves, her steps slow and gestures stilted, the swish of fabric against skin barely auditable, and Sherlock knows that she is listening. That his sister is worried and rubbing her sleeve and waiting with baited breath.

The admission, when it comes, is nearly silent. A mouse walking across velvet.

“It was not.”

Sherlock does not have to look behind him to know that Mycroft has closed his eyes, that he is fighting to keep his breath deep and even despite how it catches in his chest. Sherlock does not need to have the _crack_ reach his ears to know that Anthea has shattered her wine glass, the pale liquid rapidly spilling over the countertop and onto the floor.

Does not have to speak for the meaning to be clear.

“Sherlock, do you truly wish to – “

“No, Mycroft, I do not. However John is not willing. He has made that explicitly clear.”

“The process only takes once, Sherlock. Surly John would be willing if it means ensuring your continued existence.”

Sherlock scoffs lightly.

“You know as well as I, Mycroft, that while once may satisfy the urge itself, the desire will only increase.”

The words are in French, softly spoken, and Sherlock does not need to elaborate for Mycroft to understand. Desire for his Mate presence, his mind and emotions, his loyalty and his anger and most of all, for his body.  All of which he, the great Sherlock Holmes, already experiences.

Abruptly Mycroft raises from his chair, his footfalls only slightly measured as he crosses the room to stand behind him. Mycroft hovers behind Sherlock’s left shoulder. He is close, closer then he has been in a long time, barley a hairsbreadth from his brother’s form. Sherlock knows that if he stretched his hand back (a half an inch? a few centimeters?) he would brush Mycroft’s coat sleeve, knows that if he leaned backward ever so slightly he would come into contact with his brothers’ suit clad chest. The form behind him would be solid, the fabric underneath his skin cool and silkily, and he would just have enough time to appreciate both before Mycroft’s hands would fall on his shoulders, firm and steady and anchoring him to the here and now. Familiar sensations, all of them, of all that Sherlock has not sought them in over four hundred years. The resentment that he feels towards Mycroft (and why does he feel it? why? he cannot remember _why_ ) prevents it.

So Sherlock does not lean against his brother and Mycroft does not place his hands upon him. For a moment they stand there, still and silent as the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway upstairs reach their ears. The words, when they come, are welcome for all that Sherlock wishes that they had remained locked away. The language that falls from Mycroft’s mouth is beautiful to an outsider, to one untrained in the art of linguistics. A mixture of old Swedish, Ancient Greek, Latin, and Ge’ez. Dead languages all. And a mixture that Mycroft only reverts to when his worry has reached a critical mass.

“The drugs, Sherlock. How long have they been in your possession?”

“What makes you think –“  Sherlock responds in kind, his words overlaid with just a hint of harsh Russian, his instinctive denial causing the language to join the others, for all that they come effortlessly to his tongue.

“I can smell them all over your flat! I am not accusing you of using them, for your pupils show no signs of dilation nor have you reopened your arm. However, the fact remains that you have them. It does not require a large leap in logic to assume that your failing to Claim John is the underlying cause.”

Sherlock is silent, that familiar and automatic sensation of _guilt-fear-disappointment-anger_ churning in his stomach preventing his words.

“Please, Brother. Do not lie to me.”

Soft. Barely breathed. An owl flying by in the night. The phrase one that has not passed either mouth without accompanied by sarcasm or malice for going on fifty years.

It is the phrase that does it, for all that Sherlock will never admit to it.

“Two months. I – I hid them in an empty space in John’s wall. I thought that if – if he were between them and I it would be difficult for me to wish to use them, or at the very least obtain them.”

Mycroft nods, the barest jerking of his head.

“You know that they will be removed at once, of course, and that your surveillance will be increased to insure that you do not give into temptation again?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now I advise you to get some sleep, Sherlock, if you are able. You look dead on your feet. I’m sure that you and the good doctor will have much to discuss in the morning.”

Mycroft leaves, softly shutting the door behind him. Sherlock does not have time to follow, to inquire as to what he meant, and as heaviness reenters his limbs he realizes that he does not want to.

It has all been too much. The pool, his world tilting on its axis, the denied Claim and almost loosing John. This, even.

For Mycroft is right (annoyingly so). He has not been eating and often feels faint and dizzy, he’s lost count of how often his heart has beat at an irregular rhythm and he denied the urge.

He is tired.

Sherlock walks back to the sofa and lies down, his eyes feeling like lead as he listens to his Mate’s breath and his siblings’ footfalls below. Within minutes he is asleep, the crackling of the fire invading his dreams as a sniper’s gun and bones, small and fragile, cracking beneath his hands.


	40. .31

.31

 

Mummy.

Fingers brushing his hair back from his forehead, a proud, warm smile as she places her hands on Mycroft’s shoulders, squeezing Father’s hand before withdrawing hers from his grasp.


	41. .32

.32

The knife arches through the air, and Sherlock does not pause to think. Slamming Mycroft out of the way a split second before the silver bade sinks into his chest – and then there’s fire and Mycroft’s growls and his brothers hands catching him as he falls and even as the world begins to dim Sherlock hears himself say “Don’t let go, Brother, don’t let me go”.

 When the world comes back to him there’s a stabbing pain in his chest and Mycroft is asleep on the ground beside him, his hand wrapped around his. 


	42. 11

 

 

Chapter Eleven

The sun is high in the sky by the time Sherlock wakes, the fire having burned itself down to cold ash. John is still asleep as well. Odd, for he is an early raiser most days. Considering last night however, the aftermath of which would have lead to a sever adrenaline crash, perhaps it is to be expected.

Not bothering to seek out a change of clothes Sherlock exists the room, the scent of strong, Organic coffee instantly hitting his nose. Sherlock descends the staircase and after crossing the formal dining area enters the spacious and modern (but rarely used) kitchen – which is perhaps for the best, what with the white walls and wood along with black marble countertops. It would be a shame to ruin it with something as unnecessary as _cooking_   -  to find Anthea and Mycroft sitting at the long onyx table.

Anthea is sitting with her back to the window, alternating between typing furiously on her Blackberry and scribbling on a series of papers that are neatly stacked in front of her. Her hair is in a simple bun at the base of his neck, the olive green shirt and black skirt pressed and clean. Mycroft is across from her frowning slightly as he types on his laptop, the brilliant red of his tie sharp contrast to the black fabric that makes up the rest of his suit. Heavy white coffee mugs sit at each of their elbows, steam rising out of them in thick swirls. Not their first cup of coffee.

A day at the home office for the British Government, then.

Must be no word on Moriatry.

Without looking in his direction Anthea holds up a large thermos of blood, sloshing around the contents impatiently when Sherlock fails to take it.

“You’re going to drink at least half of this, and I don’t care if you’re not hungry. Drink it.”

Her voice is harsh, cold, and unforgiving. The voice of Hatshepsut commanding her subjects. It is not a voice to be disobeyed, and against his will Sherlock finds himself taking the thermos and unscrewing the cap.

Sherlock, however, makes no move to drink the meal, instead setting the thermos down on the island counter.

“Anthea, I –“

“Don’t!” she cuts in, the scratch of her pen increasing in speed.

“First of all, it’s Rosalind.” – Sherlock winces, for she knows that he loathes that name – “Second of all? Just don’t!”

Mycroft types on, unaffected by his wife’s ire and the fact that his sibling is directly in the firing range.

Fat bastard.

Sherlock feels guilt in spite of himself, for the marks of exhaustion are clear upon his sister’s face and the scent of spilled wine still lingers in the air.

“Rosalind. Sister. I - I never meant to –“

“Never meant to _what_ , Sherlock? To die? To willingly _– knowingly_ – kill yourself because you refuse to Claim him?”

Rosalind’s voice, normally soft and cultured, has begun to rise, the words shooting from her mouth in sharp bullets. She still has yet to look at him, however, her coffee hued eyes flashing and lips twisting into a sneer as she stabs at the buttons on her Blackberry, the poor electronic taking the physical force of her fury.

Before Sherlock can respond there is a sharp intake of breath behind him. Sherlock wheels around to see John in the doorway, his face white and eyes wide.

Sick.

That is what Sherlock feels in that moment, as he sees his Mate standing before him and knows that he has heard all.

John slowly moves to stand in front of him, his face still despite its parlor, despite the eyes that flick over Sherlock’s form. A doctor evaluating a patient.

“Is that true, Sherlock? Are you dying?”

John chokes on the last phrase, and Sherlock wants to deny it. Wants to take John in his arms and kiss him and reassure him that he is just fine and it’s all a lie.

But he cannot deny it, for John has heard and Mycroft and Rosalind would confirm it even if he did. Nor can he do what he yearns to, for he is a _friend_ and _friends_ do not do that.

“Yes, John. I am.”

John’s chest rises and falls, the breath deep and quick.

“All this time you’ve getting sick. All this time you’ve been dying because… because I’m you mate and you’ve…. you’ve been resisting some urge to claim me?”

John’s expression is becoming angry now, and Sherlock nods quickly.

“Yes. I – “

There had been no mention of Mate here in this kitchen. Last night, however…

“What did Mycroft do?”

“Drugged me, just made it look like I was asleep. I could hear everything Sherlock. And it’s a good thing I did, you bastard, because..”

Johns words fade away, becoming a meaningless jumble as rage builds within him, and before Sherlock is fully aware of it he spins around – _fast, fast, so fast, faster then he has moved since he was in the pit and he danced to avoid the whips and the Werepanthers laughed in the stands_ – and launches himself at Mycroft.

Mycroft, it appears, has not been oblivious to Sherlock’s state, for he was on his feet the instant Sherlock pivoted around, hands ready to meet the body lunging towards him. Meet him he does, for Sherlock slams into him, sending them crashing into the wall. After that it is a blur of rage and blows, of twisting limbs and gnashing teeth and fabric tearing, of bodies slamming into walls and bruises forming and fists are dodged an instant before the next one is blocked and Sherlock is going to kill him because he had no right to go behind his back and do this and –

 Mycroft slams his umbrella into his back, against his calves, hands, and shoulders. _Snap. Snap. Snap_. Quick hits, a mere second in duration. The type intended to subdue, not the open the skin or leave a mark. Not intended to cause lasting damage.  That does not prevent the pain that sings through his nerves as Mycroft expertly wields the hand made weapon, fire spreading across his skin as the mass of Hickory and Whale bones make contact.

It brings Sherlock back to his senses however, whereupon he finds himself crouched on the floor gazing up at his brother, those blue eyes flashing fire as surly as his own. Mycroft’s suit is torn, tie flung off and there are cuts along his face, ugly purple marks already appearing alongside the cuts and no doubt over the rest of his body as well. His hair is wild and his upper lip is split, his fangs exposed as a noise escapes him: a hiss combined with a growl, the sound one of warning.

Sherlock automatcially heads the warning, remaining crouched on the floor even though anger is still present within him. Mycroft, seeing his brother’s compliance, tosses his umbrella to the side and backs away, allowing Sherlock to stand. Sherlock does so, and judging by the way his leg screams in protest, the multiple trickles of blood, and the aches forming along his body, he is in no better shape then Mycroft.

“You had no right!”  Sherlock hands form fists as he struggles for control, to prevent his anger from turning into rage once more.

“I HAD EVERY RIGHT!!” Mycroft bellows, his voice rage and fire and bombs exploding. It is the voice of the Viking, the slave driver, and the Priest that prevents the woman from being burnt at the stake.

Mycroft steps closer to him before continuing, his body stiff with anger and his words little more then a hiss.

 “I had every right, for I have spent almost a centaury watching you kill yourself. Watching you waste away as you shoved that _filth_ into your veins, and I will be dammed if I allow you to die over something as foolish and as selfish as _this_.”   
“That goes for me too.” John’s firm voice interjects. Sherlock blinks in surprise, looking away from his brother’s furious face. For a minute he had honestly forgotten John was in the room.

John is standing behind Rosalind whose hand rests on his chest as if she were holding him back, preventing him from intervening in the recent battle.

Does he really mean… Is John really going to…

“John, you, you don’t know what you’re saying.”

“What I _know_ , you colossal moron, is that you’re dying because of something that you’re refusing to do. Something important that involves me, from the sound of it. So whatever it takes to save you, I’m going to do it. First, though, you’re going to answer some of my questions. That alright with you?”

It is the voice of Captain Watson and Dr. Watson and his friend John Watson all rolled into one. There is one notable persona missing, but Sherlock does not care, does not _notice_ , at this moment. For John is willing and will soon truly be his ( _MateMineMine_ ) and that is what matters.

Rosalind releases John, taking a step back and giving him a small smile, his forcefulness no doubt having won her approval.

“I assure you John, Sherlock will be happy to answer any questions you may have. If he is stubborn and you do not wish to use drastic measures, just hit him upside the head and take his skull. I’ve found those to be very effective.”

John is gaping slightly, most likely because this is the most Rosalind has ever said to him. Without another word she walks smoothly towards Mycroft and stops in front of him, gently turning his face from side to side as she inspects the damage.

“You’re going to be fine, but your suit is beyond repair.”

“Not unexpected given current events.”

“You should change. That white tie of yours would look more then presentable.”

“An excellent idea. Now come along, my dear. Sherlock and John no doubt have much to discuses.”

The words themselves are unremarkable, but the slight teasing lit and playful smile and the manner in which the air seems to shift around them, two bodies automatically leaning towards one another, is anything but.

They leave, his brother and sister, taking that shift with them, and for the first time that morning Sherlock is alone with his Mate, and even though mind is suddenly blank with the implications that this aloneness brings, he can’t help but feel anticipation as well. Soon, very soon, will he and John have that same shift?

“Right, so. Explain this “mate” thing to me, why don’t you?” John does not bother to sit and so neither does Sherlock, even though doing so would make it easier to touch him, to – _finally_ \- take his hand with his as John processes this new information.

“In the most basic terms it refers to the person whom is your most compatible genetic match. The one most likely to ensure strong, healthy, vampire children.”

John nods.

“That part makes sense, seeing as according to you breeding with humans only produces human children, a vampire pregnancy is rare, and Turning is just a myth. But if we’re men how can… well.”

“Mating does not always make sense John. Rosalind is barren yet she and Mycroft are mates. Pointless, in terms of passing down a linage.”

No doubt due to the situation John does not take note of what has just been reveled to him: that the head of the British Government and his Personal Assistant  (someone that John had found attractive, no less), are, to put it simply, married.

“Alright, so I’m your perfect baby partner or whatever. Fine. Now what’s claiming and why are you dying from not doing it to me?”

Sherlock falters. How does he explain something so ingrained, so necessary, in a why in which John will understand?

“It is an inherit drive, almost as necessary as air for my kind. It requires nothing more then… intimate contact, as well as the sniffing of your throat and drinking some of your blood. It more or less ensures that other Vampires are aware of your mated status, and therefore will not look at you as a sexual partner.”

John shrugs, an expression almost of noncloherence crossing his face.

“Ok, let’s get down to it then.”

“Right here?” Sherlock asks, surprised, for surly a bedroom would make things more comfortable, make it easier to touch and explore each-other and to take their time. Then again he has seen more then a few kitchen scenes in John’s porn folder of his laptop, so perhaps John prefers such a location when it involves carnal acts? And Sherlock knows that it will be a new experience for his Mate, being with a male let alone him when it comes to satisfying himself, but with every time they reaffirm their bond it will become easier, more enjoyable. Sherlock will see to it that John enjoys himself, that he is satisfied for it will prove to John that he is capable of meeting his needs. He will see to it that when those words of the earth’s thick pants fall from his lips, as Sherlock knows they are wont to do, that John will know that he has become the one whom inspires them. No one else.

“Why not? All it takes is once right? Just one little nip and sniff, then you’re life will be saved and things can go back to normal.”

Back to..

The way in which the drugs once numbed his mind is a poor comparison to the sensation that flows over him now.

It is as if ice descends upon every inch of his body, coating his mind and clenching around his heart, and if the drugs made things stop, this ice crushes them in their tracks.

_Of course._

_John is straight._

_He wants woman._

_Not men._

_Not you._

_Never you._

_You are his friend._

_He does not love you._

_Not in that manner._

_Never_ will.

As if from far off Sherlock feels his throat moving, his gestures complying. John is standing before him, facing him, his hands resting on the sides of his abdomen (when did he move?). John is looking at him, expression worried. (why is he worried? He’s fine. Just fine.) Sherlock sees his hand pulling aside John’s shirt color, and then, though scent of John and the taste of his lifeforce make that urge within his mind calm, it is a distant feeling. As it is when John does the same to him in return, scenting his neck and biting down hard, hesitantly licking the resulting liquid. The urge ceases.

It is done.

Sherlock gently pushes John away, exiting through a side door, unaware of his limp or that his nails have gouged half moons into his palms, each wound dripping ruby red droplets onto the dark wood.

Sherlock is unaware that as he turns the corner he passes Mycroft and Rosalind, whom call after his retreating back.

Minutes later Sherlock lies upon the bed in the room that has, for the past forty years, been considered his, not noticing the salty liquid that runs down his face.


	43. .33

.33

 

When his siblings make the choice to formally began cohabitation once again after work prevented them from doing so for seven years, the only thing that Sherlock is surprised by is that it took them this long.

They have separate residences of course (Anthea’s flats, sleek and modern and all sharp edges, located in Spain and London, not to mention his summer home in France and the villa in Greece, those being slightly softer and old fashioned then one might expect. Mycroft’s’ townhomes, London and New York and Glasgow, all dark wood and jewel tones and smooth corners) but over the years their possessions and tastes and _each other_ have all left their mark, interweaving with the furniture and fabrics and appliances and even the very air until it’s not simply _his_ or _hers_ (or his and his) but is nor is it quite _theirs_.

Andrew was the one to suggest it, Sherlock is sure, proposing it over a bottle of finely aged blood  that they sipped on some balcony or other. No doubt after Mycroft was done chocking he would have looked at her and said that he thought they already were, and because Anthea would have anticipated this he would be ready with the proof (written and non) that they have not been doing so. Not exactly. After reviewing the evidence and finding no fault in her logic, they most likely began to pursue an acceptable, full time residence.

 They keep their other homes, of course, when they purchase the small mansion out in Sussex. The one that becomes _theirs_.


	44. .34

.34

Constant rain, moss growing along tress, huge spotted cats and birds calling high up in the branches, and people that consume one another’s flesh.


	45. 12

 

Chapter Tweleve

He and John go back to the flat. John tries to inquire as to his physical state, but is interrupted by Mrs. Hudson’s barging in and scolding them as she places dish after dish of backed goods on the counter.

The subject is not brought up again although John continues to eye him.

John never inquires about his mental state. A pity, that.

************

They take a case, one involving an extremely rare breed of dog that has gone missing. The housekeeper did it. Obvious. Boring.

***********

John breaks up with Sarah. He does not appear to be too adversely affected by the termination of his relationship. And if Sherlock places his hand on his shoulder or takes hold of his arm a second longer then strictly necessary? If he cease his violin playing when John asks and watches the Sy Fy channel without taking reveling the ending? That’s just his way of trying to be a good friend.

 

******************

_The scent of Honeysuckle, sweet and coiling._

_The sky inky black._

_A child’s bloodless face, the torn throat a parody of a crimson scarf._

Sherlock sits at the kitchen table, alone in the darkness, allowing the heat from the tea to seep through the mug, warming his hands and chasing the images away.

 Chasing the residual sickness away.

His dreams _nightmares, the sandman sprinkling down black instead of gold_ are about a child. A child drained by a vampire. It - _they_ \- does not make sense, for although he has witnessed his kind slaughter children before _a hundrend and a thousand and twice times that and small feet fleeing and nightclothes whipping and shrill vocies screaming and the too pale forms - too still and too cold and too, **too** \- increasing in number_, he has never seen _that_ child.

Sherlock is certain of that, if nothing else.

************************

They are out of tea. And food. Cigarettes too. Blood bags as well.

John has texted him, informing him so.

Sherlock ignores the messages.

He is in the lab at Barts’, has been for the past two days. John should know that he doesn’t get reception down here. Besides John knows where he is, if he truly wishes to find him.

Molly comes in and attempts to make conversation. Her hair down, she is wearing a less garish blouse, and her lipstick is meant to be eyecatching. She smells of sunflower oil. Trying to flirt with him. Pointless. She should call Lestrade, invite him out for ice cream or something. _He_ likes sunflowers.

John texts again _. Sorry._

Sherlock feels a flash of guilt run through him, for he knows that he shouldn’t have shouted at John. It wasn’t his fault that he threw away his experiment, thinking that the maggots had gotten behind the sofa by natural means.

It was not his fault that he has been putting off his need to eat, that he’s become irritable as a result.

The lab results are in. Good. Texting the identification of the murderer to Lestrade Sherlock heads out the door, ignoring Molly’s stuttering goodbye.

Sherlock buys the tea and eatable food items, including two pounds of organic coffee and a chocolate bar. The coffee because he’s been having an odd craving for it lately, and the chocolate because John has been expressing a desire for it.

He instructs John where to buy his cigarettes, only to be met with John’s refusal. Well, he doesn’t need them anyway.

The blood bags Sherlock leaves in cold storage at the hospital. His need is not yet pressing. Besides, the blood that he craves…. well, he will never taste it again, so what is the harm in tormenting himself, just a little?

*********

After their latest case (a nine! Finally something not boring!) he and John go out to a restaurant.

That new Chinese place across from the Tube.

John’s eyes are warm, the color deepened by the lighting and the obvious enjoyment he is getting out of his company, something which Sherlock is still surprised by. After the meal Sherlock hands John his wallet and John’s fingers brush his, causing an electric current to race through him.

Later, as they watch the telly and John bids him goodnight, there is something strange on his face as he does so.

Firmly putting it out of his mind ( _it’s nothing, you idiot. It’s nothing_ ), Sherlock reads the first volume of his collectors edition detailing the evolution of man before falling asleep himself. His dreams are filled with John, the restaurant, and those oh so familiar lines of dancing rocks floating about in the air.

*********

It is the middle of the night and Sherlock walks around London, his way lit by streetlamps and headlights of passing cars, for the sky above is overcast.

John will be having nightmares tonight. Nightmares of the war and getting shot, Nightmares of Moriatry and falling into the pool, of sinking down beneath the water. There is no reason for Sherlock to remain in the flat, and even if there were… his Mate (his friend), never accepts his comfort anyway. _Doesn’t need him there_ , John says.

It begins to rain, and soon Sherlock is soaked through, his hair plastered to his head.

He keeps walking, for it is better then remaining in the flat and listening to John take care of his sexual desires, should the nightmares not be forthcomming. Better then feeling himself harden in response to John’s noises, then imagining the throb of that vein under his tongue and John stretched out beneath him.

Better then feeling guilty for betraying John’s trust, even after he has refused to allow himself to come. Better then wishing – _hoping, praying, stupid Sherlock stupid_ – that John was thinking of _him_ , and not some faceless woman.

*********

Sherlock has taken a human to feed off of. A young male in his late twenties, curly blonde hair and green eyes, the man having been raised by Vampires so there is no need to create a pretense for obtaining his blood.

For some reason John’s expression clouds over when Sherlock informs him, his eyes turning stormy for a second before a false smile crosses his face.

Something about his revelation has made John angry, but why should John be so? It is just food, after all. If the man happens to get his masochistic desires met and Sherlock consumes blood that tastes enough like his Mate’s to state him?

So he can go home and face John, read and laugh with him, touch him and make his favorite dinner once a week without forcing himself upon his unwilling friend?

Without taking that which is not his?

What is wrong with that?

************

His own nightmares come, nightmares of bombs and Elders and that child ten times more again, and Sherlock keeps quiet.

He is accustomed to keeping quiet.


	46. .35

 

.35

The cave floor is lined with animal fur, bats hang from the jagged ceiling, and every night he will leave the protection the darkness provides to drain one of the humans passing by, far down at the base of the mountain.


	47. .36

 

.36

The cat blinks its wide green eyes up at him before depositing the dead rodent on the floor at his feet. Is this supposed to be a warning or a gift? Considering that the animal vomited up a dead bird on Mycroft’s pillow yesterday, Sherlock is not certain.


	48. .37

.37

Their staff gossips about them, the British chef and his female assistant that are always in the back of the kitchen. 

The man with the cool stare and unwavering hands, the woman who insists on being referred to as Ma’am and that makes the most complicated of dishes appear simple.

They hear the words, the waiters and busboys underneath them speaking quietly in French, for they are unaware that the language is child’s play to understand. They have speculated everything from siblings to lovers to runaway criminals, everything but the truth.

Not that they are ever unprofessional, Mycroft and Anthea. While working it is as professional as always. Touching is for home, for their flat above the restaurant. Their names are for their ears only, and kissing – or anything more carnal – whist on the job seems ludicrous.

The one concession that is made is a slight brush of their fingers against the inside of their wrist.


	49. 13

Chapter Thirteen

 

 

John is updating his blog. Why is he doing that? Is it about him? It seems likely, given that John is his flatmate and that he is typing a lot, although one can never be sure.

In spite of his disinterest (and yes, he is disinterested), Sherlock takes a look when John goes down to Speedy’s Sandwich shop. He was right. Rather a lot of it is about him. Nothing about his vampirism, however, which is… good. Boring, to be sure, but it’s not like anybody would believe John’s claims anyway.

*********

 

Blast it all to hell.

How is it possible that mortals have become even stupider in the last centaury?

Wives spending time “at the office”? 

Husbands having affairs?

This man isn’t even sure if he’s _got_ a case?

A murderer acting out scenes in comic books? Well that’s interesting. The janitor was the killer. That was predictable. John is titling the case “The Geek Interrupter”. Why does it need a title? Most things on the internet don’t have titles.

This guy is offering money to find his clock? His _clock_? He needs to leave.

No one knows human ash _that_ well. Moron.

The blonde woman with those spots on her face? Maujaunia mixed with ink, poisoned her. Simple. John’s blog remains at 323 views. It appears that no one is reading it. His comment is perfectly valid. At least the people that read his blog are not uneducated, have terrible grammar, and appreciate the different types of tobacco ash. Unlike John’s viewers. And “The Speckled Blonde”?? Honestly!

Sometimes he wonders if it has become acceptable to call social services on parents that fill their child’s heads with ridiculous religious beliefs. You’d think that the world would have caught up with the times, children still thinking that people go heaven when they die. Please. They’re burned up into ash. At least they don’t believe that if they eat a dead persons heart they will channel their spirit.

 

********

They are in Buckingham Palace, he and John. John clothed and he wrapped in a sheet, and Sherlock can’t help laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. Of Mycroft sending escorts for him, while John received a helicopter out of a crime scene.  How the first thing John asks when he sees him sitting there is if he’s wearing any pants and how John can’t stop laughing, not to mention that rather childish impulse he’s fighting. (Well seeing as the ashtrays are most likely made out of diamond or something equally lavish, perhaps the impulse isn’t so childish after all). Of John’s absolutely astounded expression, and Sherlock reminds himself that John was never been in surrendering this elegant before.

“Do you think we’re here to see the Queen?”

“I don’t know.”

Sherlock hopes not.

Mary, Queen of Scots.

Catherine of Aragon

Isabella of Portugal

Beatriz Pereira de Alvim

Nur Jahan Mehrunnisa

He’s sick of Queens

The scent of his brother, which has been swirling faintly in the air, draws closer before the man himself walks into the room.

Close enough.

What follows is Mycroft being his usual pompous and arrogant self, insisting that he put on clothes simply because they are “about to be engaged by the highest in the land” – and if he were to mention the uses that tie was put to within the past five hours Mycroft certainly wouldn’t be looking so smug then, now would he?.  After that they drink tea and act civil and meet with an associate of Mycroft’s’ who revels why they have been brought here: in short, because even female royalty prefer less then vanilla sex.

Sex with a Dominatrix by the name of Irene Adler. _A Dominatrix, well he hasn’t encountered one of those in a while and No Mycroft, sex does not alarm me. How would you know? You haven’t had any in twenty five years and while you’ve might have Claimed John you have not lain with him have you?_

A Dominatrix that apparently took Photographs of herself and her female client in a number of positions, the mere mention of which causes John to instantly fantasize _and it’s bad enough that he must watch his Mate prefer woman and listen (hear, smell, see) the results of his sexual fantasies and infrequent conquests but to have it so blatantly  shoved in his face in front of Mycroft of all people_ so Sherlock orders John to put his cup back in his saucer and ignores Mycroft’s expression of half disapproval, half sympathy. He is just getting to his feet when he is informed that the photographs are simply being held with no “apparent” intention of employing them for a gain which will benefit Irene Adler herself.

Well. A power play against the most powerful family in Britain, and this Adler woman appears to be winning. Oh his week is getting better already.

***************

Sherlock wakes the next morning in his bed, his head splitting fit to burst and a body that does not want to listen to his demands. As he closes his eyes against the glare of the sun filtering in through his curtains and gives up attempting to stand, burying his head under his pillow and attempting to think back to last night.

Something about a woman…

Yes. Yes, of course. Irene Adler, the Dominatrix.

The woman whom he had not been able to deduce and whose mind had, admitly, fascinated him. A mind  that was as sharp as his own and easily twice as quick.

The woman whom was as deadly as a lioness and as cunning as a viper…. and whom somehow had at the very least a working knowdgle of Vampires. She had injected him with diluted white oleander, which, unlike the whole flower itself, would cause one to fall into a heavily drugged state rather then dying instantly once the poison had reached their bloodstream.

It also caused temporary  memory lose, as appears to have occurred because there is something nagging about at the back of his mind. Something about John.

Sherlock recalls John being there, of course. He also recalls that John had a date that night but had, apparently, canceled in order to watch over him in his altered state. (It’s a mark of how muddled he is that he cannot work up the proper excitement over that, at least not right now).

No. There was something else….

A new crack forms in his skull. Oh forget it. He’ll remember it latter.

 

**************

Four hours latter, when he remembers, it is enough to send him all but bolting from the bed in spite of the throbbing in his head. The throbbing that was like the Woman’s’ whip and the throbbing beat of Johns’ heart, which may have been silenced forever last night. Silenced because Mycroft had contacted the American CIA, one of whom had held a gun to his Mate’s head. Had very nearly killed his Mate. Sherlock recalls it now. The blind terror and the itching of his fangs and how his mind had raced faster then it ever had before and how that American had smiled and mocked him and how knocking him out wasn’t nearly good enough. How standing there and listening to John’s thanks wasn’t good enough but how he’d had to make due and focus on the Case when all he’d really wanted was to touch John. To caress his form through his clothes and allow John to take him there on the floor and reestablish his Claim because John could’ve died and John was his but he’d made it more then clear that he wasn’t and the Woman was standing there waiting for an advantage and so none of that was an option, really.

If John had been killed…

If that bullet had entered his brain…

If he had lost him…

There was not a phrase which would do the feeling justice. Perhaps the only thing that came close would best be described as walking around with a hole in your chest. A hole that never ceased to bleed.

From downstairs noise reaches him, the familiar sounds of Mrs. Hudson walking around and remarking in dismay over the contents of the fridge and the flats general cleanliness.

“Why on earth has he got a catfish in the crisper drawer?” she asks, sounding appalled, as if that is the most awful thing he’s ever done.

When the sound of John’s hastily stifled laugh floats up Sherlock releases the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He’d known that John was alright and in the flat, of course, but to just to hear him relieved some of his anxiety, some of his lingering fear.

_Ahh_.

His text alert. Great. Absolutely fantastic. That hadn’t been an unsettling dream then.

_Mycroft is on his way._

His sisters message is, as ever, brief and to the point.

Just as his words to Mycroft will be.

He’d better change clothes, seeing as he only has fifteen minutes before his arch enemy arrives.

************

Sherlock walks down the stairs, wincing slightly as his abused skin protests. If the white oleander hadn’t tipped him off that The Woman had immortal connections, then the bruises on his face and torso would have clued him in. Normally with his increased healing any bruising would be minor, as was the area where John had struck him. Where the Woman had left her mark, however, ranged from red to deep purple, the paleness of his skin making the bruises appear a great deal worse then they actually were. Her hands and riding crop must have been coated with avocado oil for such a mark to have been left.

“There you are, Sherlock. How are you-?”

John’s inquiry is cut off with a gasp as he catches sight of him, almost dropping his mug of tea onto the floor.

Damn. All of his silk shirts were at the dry cleaners, and seeing as silk was the only material that was soothing for injuries caused by avocado oil it had not even entered his mind to put on another shirt. He’d also forgotten to put a sheet on to cover his upper body before descending down into the kitchen. As such his torso was in full view, allowing the full extent of his injures to be seen.

“What the hell, Sherlock?” John exclaims, rushing towards him and quickly slipping into Doctor mode as he puts his hand on his shoulder to halt his progress to the coffee pot.

“When did you get these?” John inquires, lightly running his fingers over the marks as he bends slightly closer, narrowing his eyes at them.

“Yesterday, courtesy of The Woman.” Sherlock says, struggling to keep his voice even as the feel of Johns’ fingers running over him causes every kitchen based fantasy that he’s ever had to come rushing back to him.

Now is not the time!

John’s index finger follows the line of a violet mark which extends from his ribcage to the lower half of his hip, and when John reaches the waistband of his pants he places his hand on Sherlock’s hip seemingly automatically as he lightly pushes. Sherlock heads the wordless request to turn around somewhat with relief, for at least then his twitching cock would be hidden from John’s view. Placing his hands on counter Sherlock leans against the cupboard, and as John places his hands on his hips and runs them along his back _he’s checking for internal injures you moron nothing else_ Sherlock realizes that this position was a mistake. The feel of his Mate’s hands and knowing that he alone is the focus of John’s gaze had caused him to harden, and the pressure of the cupboard and the constricting feel of his pants is only making him more aroused as the sensations continue to bombard him. The increase of Johns heart rate and breathing and the scent of his Mate along with the toast he’d eaten that morning, how John shifts closer and the way those callouses feel a little like sandpaper as John rubs his palm along his shoulder blade – that bruise must be worse then he’d thought and oh god keep rubbing there John –, and then John’s hand is creeping lower again and his cock is growing harder and please just a little lower John that’s it just a little more. –

Behind them someone coughs discreetly.

Mycroft.

John instantly steps away and Sherlock stills, cursing inwardly, both at the interruption as well as what he had almost encouraged. What he’d almost encouraged as his Doctor flatmate was giving him an examination. As his friend was touching him.

“Something wrong, Sherlock?” Mycroft questions, his voice all false innocence and smugness as he makes his way into the kitchen. As Sherlock remains against the counter, which he is forced to do until his rapidly softening cock becomes completely flaccid, he can _swear_ he can actually hear it increase, especially when John mutters something about taking a shower and quickly exists the kitchen.

“Nothing.” Sherlock bites out as he turns around, feeling a small amount of satisfaction as Mycroft’s eyes widen at the sight of his bruises.

“We need to talk, however.” Sherlock says as he lowers his voice to a pitch that is below human hearing.

Mycroft raises his eyebrows as he deposits a shopping bag that he’d been carrying onto the table, the scent of silk wafting up. A wordless gesture to continue. Not that Sherlock had had any intention of ceasing even if the gesture had not been given. Not this time.

“John could very well have been killed last night, thanks to your _connections_.” Sherlock hisses as he takes a step towards Mycroft, the memory of John kneeling before a gun and how he’d almost hadn’t been quick enough causing his fangs to drop.

Mycroft, seeing the clear threat behind the gesture, instinctively tenses, his hand tightening on his umbrella handle.

“I assure you, Sherlock that any peril that John may have faced was not intentional.“

“Irrelevant!” Sherlock snarls as he continues to move closer until they are face to face.

“If John should ever be placed in danger again due to your orders, then this little display will be the least that I will do.” His voice is lower now, little more then a growl.

Mycroft raises his hand, the gesture meant to be calming.

“There is no need for –“

“If our positions were reversed and it had been Andrew on his knees?” _On his knees like the whores and silver beaten slaves and the ones whom were thrown into the lions den._

Mycroft’s lip twitches. Sherlock holds back a smirk. He’d thought so. If it had been Andrew… well his throat might not have been torn out but he’d be in a great deal of pain regardless.

The sound of John’s footsteps sound above them, heading in the direction of the stairs.

Mycroft nods.

_Understood._

Sherlock turns and makes his way back to the counter, pouring three mugs of coffee and handing one to Mycroft a second before John enters the room, his face oddly flushed.

_Good._

 

*****************

Mycroft, of course, was not pleased that after all that – running around and getting drugged and John nearly getting shot – that they still didn’t have the photographs. His ire his obvious, for he drinks his coffee without milk, snaps at Mrs. Hudson, fails to mention the text alert that The Woman programmed onto Sherlock’s phone, and does not even bother to deny the fact that the Americans are interested in Irene Adler means there’s more to this case then some compromising photographs. Something much more. Instead Mycroft only glances between John and the phone when the second _Ahh_ sounds out (apparently finding something amusing), and after taking a phone call tells Sherlock to remove himself from the Irene Adler case. _Tells him with steel in his eyes and a face like ice and that almost order in his tone that is only almost and so really there is no reason for Sherlock to obey._

 

*****************

Over the next four months they take on three new cases, John dates a series of woman (all of whom Sherlock finds equally boring, stupid, and bothersome – although that red head that had satisfied John’s sexual urges more so then the others – and Sherlock does his best to ignore the prickling of his skin and the knot in his chest), Lestrade continues to be infatuated with Molly and invites himself along on every trip to the morgue, John’s sister calls up drunk four times, and John yells at him because Sherlock may, or may not, have taken a blowtorch to all of the edible food in the flat in the name of science. Mycroft and Anthea head to China for three months without informing them until their plane has landed (apparently the business was highly sensitive as well as pressing). They do things together as well, he and John. Go to bookstores and lunch out, out for coffee and buying harpoons as well as crossbows (Sherlock may have had to drag John along for that). John drags him to movies and the shooting range and farmers markets as well as the hardware store. Through all that Sherlock ignores the way John touches him; little, fleeting touches that mean something yet do not and _so they do not_. Ignores the way that his Mate laughs and smiles at him and, sometimes, stands just a little too close for other people to look at them and think _friends_. That doesn’t mean anything though, anymore then does the fact that John accepts his touch in return. His Mate is simply a tactical person, that is all.

One thing that  Sherlock cannot ignore is the manner in which John reacts to every one of Irene Adler’s texts. Reacts with stilled movements and narrowed eyes and mouth forming a firm line. Reacts by counting every one of the texts (everyone that he hears, that is, for it is not 34 it is 66 – _almost the devils number, the serpents speech and world’s end as peasants died and the wealthy feared and they went around the sun again_ ). If Sherlock did not know better he would be tempted to say it is jealously, which is foolish of course. For one thing his Mate does not desire him in that manner and for another Sherlock knows jealously, knows it within his chest and in his dreams and knows it in a hundred thousand ways _burning eyes and words that wound and a lovers heads laid under the severing blade as women pray that Hera takes the life of a mistress babe_ and John does not… simply does not. It might be different, might be a reason for his Mate’s reaction if he’d responded to the texts, if he were to disregard his friends feelings on such a matter. If he were to respond to the flirtation and sexual overtones the messages bring, if he were to violate his Mate’s trust and their bond in such a manner. Both notions are foolish, for neither has he responded nor betrayed John in either sense. Nor would he ever. Quite frankly, the very notion of doing so makes him sick.

What Sherlock cannot not deny about the phone as well as Irene Adler, is that both are a puzzle. Irene because he was unable to deduce her, unable to beat her. Because she is challenging and confident and deadlier then a Cobra’s poison, but a simple Dominatrix she is not. She is more then she seems and knows more then she says (more then she _ever_ says he’d wager, for that is what those such as them, those with a quicksilver mind and genius intellect, must learn; _how to notice and retain and become hidden amongst the rest and when necessary transform the silken thread into a hangman’s noose_ ). The phone, one could say, is an extension of Irene. If he can unlock it he can unlock her. Beat it and he beats her.

****************

Then Christmas comes.

Of course, John decides that they are going to have a Christmas party at the flat. Of course John also doesn’t have the faintest idea of how to go about preparing for the event, which Sherlock makes the mistake of gloating about to Molly while he runs cutlers, right in front of one of the many cameras that the British Government has full access to. So when Anthea walks into the flat two days latter on the morning of the party, wearing a knee length black silk qípáo and accompanied by a small army of personal, Sherlock takes a brief moment to wish that his tongue had been cut out at some point in the past, preferably prior to this week.

“How was China? At what point did I say that I wanted your help, Anthea?” Sherlock asks from his spot on the sofa, not bothering to so much as pull on a pair of underwear as he speaks.

“Noel, and China was satisfying. You did not, but I decided to intervene because you and John are both hopeless at planning any sort of social event.” His sibling remarks as she sits on the armrest by his head, completely unfazed by his nudity and her fingers tapping out something or other on her Blackberry.

A staff member quickly moves the armchairs to the side before rolling up the rug, handing it off to two others whom carry it out the door.

“That’s not the point, and why are your slaves contaminating my experiments?” Sherlock demands irritably as cultures, blue tinged fruit, bags containing various body parts in varying stages of decay, and other things that have long since failed to become recognizable are pulled from the fridge.

Noel absently reaches for the tea tray that had appeared on the table in front of them as if by magic, bypassing a plate of scones and small bowls of condiments as she does so. Without looking at the fine, jade patterned bone china in front of her she pours three cups of tea, stirring in two spoonfuls of sugar into one before setting it aside, then adding cream to another, filling the cup almost to the brim. She picks up the nearly full teacup and holds it over Sherlock’s naked chest, the golden liquid clearly visible through the eggshell thin china.

“Nothing within that refrigerator is relevant to a case, the catfish is at the point of death, the fruit was simply for your own amusement, and the toes came from six different individuals.” Noel says calmly as she patiently continues to hold the steaming cup over Sherlock’s’ chest, ignoring the glare Sherlock is aiming at said cup.

After thirty seconds of silence Sherlock takes the cup, automatically applying the barest amount of pressure to the handle as he takes a sweetened, cream thickened sip. The tea set belonged to Noel’s great grandmother, after all, and it wouldn’t do to damage it. 

The same two staff members carry a bright red rug through the door, laying it down before moving the armchairs back into place.

“Further more that _is_ the point. What were you planning on severing at this gathering?” She replies as she reaches for her own cup, ignoring the sugar bowl and cream pitcher as she brings it to her lips, the liquid inside bitter and amber dark and steaming hot.

“John was contemplating purchasing a verity of sandwiches, a plate of shrimp, a cold pasta salad, and some sort of fruit based pie.”

“Exactly my point. Your guests will commit suicide based on the food alone, to say nothing of the décor.”

The décor that four staff members are currently proceeding to alter in earnest, two taking a scrub brush to the walls and one placing wood inside of the fireplace whilst another hangs colored lights on the window.

“What is wrong with the décor?”

“It is acceptable for basic living, nothing more extravert.”

“Didn’t you once live in a cave that had a dirt floor?”

“An improvement, I assure you. The walls contained exposed diamond which created a verity of colors when exposed to light from a fire.”

Noel takes another sip and crosses one leg over the other, fixing her eyes on Sherlock until he to, drinks. She returns her gaze to the screen in her hand.

“I assume that you at least planned to hang up festive lights and the like?”

 “John was prepared to do so, yes.”

“ _John_ is right here!” John remarks in slight indignation from his spot by the mantelpiece, a teacup cradled delicately in one hand, a scone slathered with clotted cream and jam in the other, and an expression of more then slight disbelief on his face.

“Mmmm. Yes, of course you are, John.” Both Vampires carelessly mutter in unison, Sherlock eyeing the bleach solution that is being applied to the counters and Noel sipping her tea as she frowns at her Blackberry.

***********

Noel does not last long, sitting there while other people do the cooking. Sherlock did not expect her to, although to give her credit she held out twenty minutes longer then he thought she would. Two hours in she stands up, wraps Sherlock’s crumpled bathrobe around her herself to protect her clothing, and snaps her fingers. Instantly all of her staff clear out.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything as Noel proceeds to re-mince the onions, just pulls on some clothes from the back of the chair, shuts John up with a look, and begins to retrieve new ingredients from the freshly stocked fridge.

It is Noel’s time peeking through _cater and scullery maid and kitchen drudge and the preparer of the King’s table_ that causes her to despise cooking but being unable to stand by and watch another do it. One whom is not trained to her satisfaction, that is. Unfortunately for Sherlock, that does not include him.

His is just taking out the chilled whisk in order to rewhip the cream when Mycroft walks in, carrying a change of clothing.

“I see that I arrived right on time.” he remarks as he takes in the scene in front of him: Sherlock standing at the counter with flour on his face and cream on his fingers, Noel in a bathrobe chopping garlic and mixing three bowls at once, and John with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he tackles a towering pile of dishes from his designated place at the sink.

“Yes. You did in fact.” Noel says as she removes her dress right there in the kitchen without a hint of immodesty.

Mycroft’s amused expression dies abruptly.

Pulling on the loose skirt and a white t-shirt she continues, “John requires assistance with the dishes.”

“My appointment with the French ambassador-“

Noel puts her hands on her hips.

“Is not for another four hours, Mycroft. You can aid us for three and a half hours. You will find a change of clothes on the back of the sofa.”

“Those are mine!” Sherlock protests, making sure that he is whipping the cream correctly.

Noel raises her eyebrows as Mycroft heads to the sofa, a sour expression on his face.

“Yes? What is your point? You will not die if Mycroft dons your clothing for _any_ length of time, you are not currently wearing them, and you also set fire to the clothing you were wearing yesterday.”

“They were covered in animal urine!” he protests, increasing the speed of his whisking.

“That is what a washer is for.” Noel remarks as puts her hair up in a ponytail before returning to the garlic.

Mycroft, appearing extremely odd in dark dress clothes instead of his usual three piece, joins John at the sink, whose face is red from holding back his laughter.

Nine hours latter John’s arms have gone numb, Mrs. Hudson has come up twice to see what all of the banging is about, Sherlock has sustained three burns to the hands and one to the wrist, Noels’ eyes are flashing dangerously, and Mycroft has wisely skived off rejoining them. The food, however, is prepared to Noel’s satisfaction.

Three hours latter their guests arrive.

***********

John has brought a _date_. He’s only been dating her a week so she shouldn’t be here but here she is. Another woman hanging off his Mates’ arm and kissing John under the damn mistletoe when it should be he, Sherlock Holmes, kissing him and allowing John’s arm around his waist and accepting that blasted eggnog! And he doesn’t even _like_ eggnog! Why is this bothering him so badly now, tonight of all nights? Usually he can push down these feelings and control it _control the urge to rip out throats and Claim and take and snarl that enraged predator’s snarl_ but right now it is difficult almost to the point of impossibitly. Not to mention the scents! It’s all a swirl of dust and rosin polish and garlic and alcohol plus Lestrade’s coal and grass and driftwood aroma and Mrs. Hudson’s’ clay and lavender scent as well as that woman’s god-awful odor of apples and roses, all of it mixing with his Mates’ delicious orange-coffee-sunlight-wool and his thoughts are going a million miles an hour but maybe if he occupies his mind and his hands it will get better. So he plays jingle bells on his violin as a present for Mrs. Hudson and talks to that _woman_ only when he has to and looks at John’s blog _how often has he read that thing and made pleasant remarks in order to please John? two hundred? three hundred?_ only to find that John has posted a picture of him in that stupid hat.

 It is not getting better and then Molly shows up. _Peaches and cream, grapes and coco beans plus powdered bird bone and hell and damnation there’s even more scents now._ Molly, whom is still attracted to him and yet is wearing Lestrade’s coat whom is gaping at her when she takes it off to revel something tight and black underneath. Lestrade, whom she speaks to with warmth as they mirror the other’s stance in a way that does _not_ say friendship. Dorset? It’s all sorted? _Oh please Lestrade you know very well she’s sleeping with that PE teacher that lives next door and besides you’ve been staying at Molly’s place for almost four months now, haven’t you? Don’t bother to deny it your scents are all over each other even if it’s not in that way and Good God Molly wake up! Lestrade is smiling at you like Anthea smiles at Mycroft and Father did at Mummy and even that Werepanther couple down the street for God’s sake and you’re looking at him in a way that you’ve never looked at me but you’re fixated on me because I’m safe even though you don’t really want me and both of you are just too blind to see it!_

That woman is still here – _the boring teacher and adulteress and the Jezebel and burn her crush her throw her from a window and take your Mate in her blood as you stake your Claim and drink him down and then allow him to do the same to you_ – dear Lucifer what is wrong with him? It’s never been this bad before and he’s sure this woman is actually a very nice person and he doesn’t really want to do any of that to her nor fuck John in her blood there on the pavement…. but he has to turn his head to the window to hide his fangs and disguise the hiss that passes his lips and force his heart rate to slow because he _wants_ to. Focus on something else! Look, the present at the top of Molly’s bag! Pick it apart and deduce it and talk and talk and just keep talking…. Oh. That’s definitely not good and he hadn’t meant to hurt or embarrass Molly even though judging by the hasty scrawl she wasn’t sure about the receptor of the gift and he considers Molly someone he’s rather close to so an apology is in order and John is disappointed in him and so is Mrs. Hudson and so it is now a hundred times worse.

A hundred times worse because suddenly it’s not just that woman whose blood he wants on his hands. It’s all of them. _Smash their skulls and rip out the heart and wrap that necklace around the neck because it is his Claim and his Mate and they have none and so they want to take and they must break – No! StopStopStop! These are his friends. Lestrade and Molly and Mrs. Hudson for God’s sake and none of them want John… but that woman does and she can take and have and claim and can fuck John in a way that he has not and so she must be the one to lose her head…_

_STOP!! STOP IT!! STOP IT!! STOP IT!!_

_Ahh_. The Woman’s text rings out _bring your mind back and focus on this, not that never that!_

_Mantelpiece_ the text says and there’s a small red box waiting for him there. _That_ _Camera Phone is my life, I’d die before I’d let you take it._ Something must have happened to her so that means the game is in danger and John is worried and angry and still counting (Fifty seven from what I’ve heard. What’s wrong Sherlock? Do you ever replay _?) It’s seventy four John and why are you counting and of course I’ve never replayed but why do you care? Why are you concerned and angry and why do you look at the phone like you want to smash it? Why is that woman looking at you funny and how come all I really want to do is kill her as well as them and fuck you anywhere you’ll have me and why is that woman still here?? Why are they all here? No one should be here except you and I and they need to leave!_

Making it to his room Sherlock closes the door and leans against it, staring at the trembling in his hands and trying to focus on Irene Adler and the package in his hand and not John’s face in his mind or the faint twitching of his cock and how he wants to sink his fangs into all of their necks. _Remember The Woman and the case and the package that’s in your hand! Don’t open this door! Don’t open it, don’t go out and calm your thoughts and focus on this and don’t leave this room because if you do you’ll rape your Mate and kill your friends!_

Remarkably, a few minutes latter, Sherlock has calmed enough to be able to sit on his bed and open the package without his thoughts racing and turning bloody. Within the wrapping is, indeed a camera phone. Irene Adler’s camera phone.

She will be dead soon, if she’s not already.

There is an odd feeling growing within his chest. Something that is almost grief and almost fear but not exactly. Not anywhere near what he felt just a few minutes previously nor what he’d experienced when faced with John’s death. But it is still there regardless and it is…. troubling.

Mycroft’s voice, when Sherlock calls him, is as calm as ever. Must be a calm night at home for him and Anthea, then.

“Good lord. We’re not going to have Christmas phone calls now, are we? Have they passed a new law?”

“I think you’re going to find Irene Adler tonight.”  Sherlock replies as John opens his door, his Mate’s scent flooding the room and causing that strange urge to rise within him again. Only it’s muted this time, tempered perhaps by his few minutes of calm and that strange sensation still present within him.

“We already know where she is. But as you were kind enough to point out, it hardly matters.” Mycroft says unconcernedly. Over the phone a fire crackles and low thumps sound. Not echoing though. Low shoes, no heels. Andrew, his soles hitting Oak. Sussex. They are in their library in Sussex, the same house where he and John stayed. Where John was Claimed. Claimed as his. A futile Claim, it would seem.

“No I mean you’re going to find her dead.” Sherlock hangs up without waiting for a reply and closes the door in John’s face, ignoring his Mate’s concern. Ignores it for the scents are drifting towards him and his thoughts are becoming tinged with blood again. Ignores it for that emotion of…. not quite fear and greif is still present. Ignored because…. because the scent of that woman is heavy on John’s jumper and because he, Sherlock, may not be dead but other then ensuring that…. Claiming John, Claiming the other half of himself, was pointless. It would appear that friends and a perfect genetic match is all that they are, indeed.

 

+++++++++++++++++++++++

 

It is snowing. That is one of the first things that Sherlock notices as he waits for Mycroft outside of St. Bart’s with his coat wrapped tightly around him in an automatic human pretense, the call of Irene Adler’s body having come in three hours earlier. Thick flakes of snow that steadily fall down around him. odd, for London nowadays at least. The first thing that he notices is that for some reason that urge he felt at the party is all but gone. It still remains, but it is only a slight twinge. Nothing at all like before. Good. That’s good.

The third thing that Sherlock notices, after the black car pulls up on the curb and Mycroft exists to stand beside him, his expression concealing a worry that Sherlock does not wish to aknowdgle, is that Mycroft smells strongly of sex. Recent sex, to. Very recent. Sometime within the last two hours, for any longer and the smell would have faded. Why would Mycroft and Andrew have sex in the car? They’ve mixed carnal relations and their professions all of once, and that was an extreme circumstance. Now is not the time to figure it out, however. So they enter the morgue and see the body and… yes the measurements are correct. It’s Irene Adler.

Sherlock does not leave the hospital after identifying the body. Instead he stands at the window, looking out at the empty and snow covered street below. He allows the scents of chemicals, death, and mortals to wash over him, not bothering to distinguish one scent from the next. He is in shock and morning, he realizes that now. Only he is not mourning Irene Adler herself, but rather the loss of _possibility_. For she had been brilliant, yes. A challenge, to be sure, and perhaps if the circumstances were different she could have become one of those _almost_ friends people seem to have. That mortals and weres seem to have. Only she was not and the circumstances were what they were. There is no changing that.

Sherlock can feel Mycroft’s’ eyes on him through the window of the morgue doors but he does not turn, does not aknowdgle his sibling’s form, even when Mycroft comes to stand behind him. Stand behind him just as he had done that night in his study, and as that shock persists and as his thoughts twinge and the image of John with that woman from tonight flash through his mind, Sherlock wants to lean backward. To feel Mycroft’s’ leather clad hands on his shoulders and his chest beneath his back and allow his brother to anchor him and take this _feeling_ from him. Sherlock knows that Mycroft would do it to, without a seconds hesitation… but just as that night in the study Sherlock does not do any of that. He can’t.

“Just the one.” Mycroft says, holding up a cigarette. A test, Sherlock knows.

“Why?”  Why is Mycroft testing him? Surly he cannot believe that Irene Adler meant so much to him that he would turn to drugs to deal with her death.

“Merry Christmas.” It is said with an ironic smile, as if Mycroft can tell that his Christmas has not been at all merry.

Sherlock takes the cigarette from Mycroft’s fingers. He’s failed the test but has no intention purchasing another vial. Not because of Irene. Because of John, now? Because of tonight? He’d be a liar if he’d said that the thought had not skirted across his mind once or twice, but _skirted_ it had, never taking hold. Never.

“Smoking indoors. Isn’t that one of those law things?”

“We’re in a morgue. There’s only so much damage you can do.” Mycroft says quietly as he lights the cigarette. He’s using contractions, Mycroft is. He’s worried now. Very worried.

This cigarette tastes different from the kind that he usually smokes. Less, somehow. Sherlock does not care, not tonight. For he’s been craving a cigarette for days and if this is all he gets – just as all he gets from John – then he will take it.

“How did you know she was dead?” Mycroft questions as he blows out the smoke, the scent of Mint hardly there.

“She had an item in her possession. When she knew her life was in danger she decided to give it up.”

“Where is this item now?”

_With me, but of course you know that._

Before Sherlock can respond voices reach their ears, the scene capturing their attention. A Doctor, telling a family that their loved one crashed the car while driving drunk. Crashed it head on into another car, both passengers dying instantly. The family is crying now, but not just for their loved one. For the other person as well.

“Look at them. They all _care_ so much. Do you ever wonder if there’s something wrong with us?” he questions.

_Us? All of our kind? Is it our near immorality that has made us uncaring for the lives of strangers? For I guarantee that not many of us would feel anything at all for that other passenger. Nothing meaningful, at least._

Mycroft knows what he is referring to. What he is asking.

“All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.” Mycroft says calmly, even though his earlier vocal contractions and staring eyes as he turns to look at him betray him.

_Perhaps not, but you do anyway. Care. Both of us do._

Taking another pull off the cigarette Sherlock realizes why it tastes so off. Why he can barley taste anything at all.

“This is _low_ tar.”

He never smokes cigarettes that are made with plants of that level of decay.

“Well. You barely knew her.” Mycroft’s’ voice is casual but, around the shock and that lingering feeling, Sherlock has to scoff because Mycroft was right. He barley knew Irene Adler yet he cared for her because of the challenge and possibility she represented.

Nothing meaningful there at all, really.

“Merry Christmas, Mycroft.” Sherlock calls as he walks away. Walks back to the apartment and that dangerous urge and a Mate whom is not actually his. He continues to slowly smoke the cigarette as he walks out of the hospital, after all it is a Christmas gift. Would be a shame to waste it.

**********

When Sherlock exists the hospital the first person he sees is Andrew, wearing a chocolate hued coat and leaning against the car. Andrews’ eyes sweep over him, his expression tightening. Sherlock doesn’t pause next to him but continues to make his way though the snow. Almost instantly his footfalls sound behind him, as he knew they would.

“Are you alright?” he questions, his voice worried as he shoves his hands deep into his pockets.

Sherlock takes another short, chemical filled inhale, holding the smoke in before slowly blowing it out into the still night air.

“Not at the moment, no.”

Andrew eyes the cigarette in between his fingers.

“Is there just cause for our worry?”

Sherlock considers carefully before replaying, breathing in the cool and off-sweat scent of the snow as he ponders. Finally he shakes his head.

“No. Not concerning Irene Adler, at least.”

The street is quiet around them, mortals sleeping at the late hour as the snow creates a blanket of silence. The only noise being their footfalls and the faint sounds of tires as the car follows a few hundred yards behind.

“John?” Andrew questions tensely. He already knows the answer.

Sherlock takes another pull and glances at the ground, not wishing to meet his eyes.

“The thought alone has crossed my mind, yes. But nothing more then that, I promise you.” He says quietly.

Andrew stops for a moment, closing his eyes. Inhales. Exhales.

Behind them the black car stops as well and Sherlock knows that Mycroft is listening. That he is tense and staring blankly ahead and not even aware that his fangs are exposed. That he is prepared to tie him to a bed once again, should it prove necessary. Sherlock finds an odd sort of comfort in that.

Twenty seconds latter Andrew continues walking, his composure regained. He does not ask for confirmation of his word.

The car follows. Mycroft has not asked for it either.

“I assume you haven’t told John yet.” he says, his voice a near growl with disapproval.

Composure not entirely regained then.

“Told him what?” Sherlock hedges, even though he knows fully well what Andrew is referring to. How could he not, when he has to live with it everyday?

“That cheating on your mate is tantamount to Necrophilia!” he snaps, spitting the last word out with disgust and anger and fangs. Sherlock can almost see the spider web being spun within his mind.

Composure definitely not regained then.

“No, I have not. Nor will you.”

“You love him. You love him and he’s hurting you! _More_ then hurting you, Sherlock.”

His cigarette is half gone. He needs another.

“Don’t you know that love is a dangerous disadvantage?” he remarks dryly, for if he, the freak and sociopath, did not love then John could never harm him. Not like this.

“That is true only when the one whom you love is inflicting pain upon you. Just as John is doing.”

“That may be so, but John finds satisfaction in woman and to expect him to abide by a biology not his own is cruel in the extreme.”

Andrew opens his mouth to continue but Sherlock holds up a hand to forestall him.

“Please. Enough.” He says softly, for he cannot talk about it anymore, not when he has to experience it and he still has dreams about Moriatry taking John, not when that shock is still lingering and that _feeling_ starting to make itself known, not when he wanted his brother to take it all away back at the morgue but he couldn’t and how he must live with the reality that Claiming his Mate was pointless.

Not when he has to feel that knot within his stomach every time John takes another. Not when his skin crawls and his mind roars when John comes home with the evidence still clinging to his body. Not when he must act indifferent to it all, when indifferent is the _last_ thing that he is.

Andrew complies with sympathy in his gaze, shutting his mouth and walking in silence beside him. They are halfway back to Baker Street, where John and his date are no doubt conducting a drug search under Mycroft’s orders.

“How are you holding up tonight?” Andrew questions, keeping his tone light as through determined to be pleasant.

“Holding up?” holding up with what, besides the obvious, of course?

He nods. “Yes. Mycroft and I were doing perfectly fine until you called, but then we had to have sex in the car a few times to take the edge off.”

Take the edge –

How could he have forgotten? Tonight was the night. 

The one night a year when Heat set in. When a Vampire became even more possessive and deadly then usual if they thought someone else was attempting to steal their Mate. When they needed to be alone with their Mate and Claim them and fuck them until the sun rose. When they could not even be around an unmated individual without wanting to kill them (and in many cases seceding). Not even unmated relatives were safe when it came to this night. It was even almost unbearable to _scent_ anyone or anything other then their Mate.

This was what had been wrong with him. This was he’d couldn’t control his emotions or calm his thoughts and all he could think about was blood and killing and destroying his friends. Because his mind noticed their unmated status and, even though he knew otherwise, his instincts saw them as having designs on his Mate. Of wanting to take whom was not theirs to take. As for Johns’ date…. well she _had_ been attempting to steal him so of course his reaction became even more violent towards her, the one whom he viewed as an interloper _Viewed? You’re viewing her as that right now. You see the shaking in your hands?_   Why he’d wanted to take and Claim John wherever he could, to let them know that John was not to be stolen. It even explained the scents, how he had trouble picking them apart and hated them all except John’s. He exclusively craved the scent of his Mate and his Mate alone. Even the aroma of chocolate was aggravating on this night, and the scents of others’ had only made his hormone ridden brain insist that John was about to be taken from him. That, at least, explained why being in his room calmed him and why wrapping his scarf around his neck before he left had instantly mellowed his mind. Because both room and scarf were soaked only in Johns’ scent. Nothing else.

How could he have been so foolish? How could he have forgotten that this was the night? The danger he had placed everyone in due to his own carelessness…. God he’s lucky he didn’t murder them all. So lucky.

Andrew is still waiting for his response, still walking beside him.

“Fine. I’m doing fine.” Sherlock manages to say around the constriction in his throat, hoping that his voice sounds normal.

Apparently it does for Andrew does not comment any further, and when they reach the corner of Baker Street he only looks at the building in disapproval before bidding him goodbye and climbing into the car.

 As Sherlock enters the building he pauses at the foot of the stairs, checking for the presence of anyone else in the flat by scent alone. After determining for a second time that only John was within Sherlock makes his way up, and when he sees John sitting in the armchair reading and drinking a glass of wine the urge to Claim and take comes upon him again and so Sherlock quickly makes for his room, vaguely hearing himself mutter something about his sock index.

Later that night after John has gone to bed, Sherlock gets himself off in the shower a dozen times or more by imagining John inside him, does his best to remember the taste of John’s blood in his mouth, and for the reminder of the night he stands in John’s doorway, watching his Mate sleep and breathing in his scent and replaying those long ago remembered words of sun and greenery in his head.

It scarcely helps however, for it is not what the Heat is demanding of him. It is all he will allow himself, so it will have to do.

The next morning, when Mycroft and Andrew stop by and John offhandedly mentions that his date broke up with him the night before he does not notice the expression of satisfaction on their faces. Nor does he notice when Sherlock hides his face behind the paper, closes his eyes, and just breaths. Just breathes as that knot in his stomach loosens once again.

***************

Over the next two days Sherlock throws himself back into the case, back into cracking Irene Adler’s phone because even though he knows whatever information the phone contains is now safe from prying eyes it is still about the challenge and beating her and because it is easier then… well. He doesn’t need to answer that, now, does he. So he composes and plays the violin and refuses to eat as he thinks and even turns to the faulty number count on John’s blog. It’s all amounting to nothing and so when John follows a woman whom he assumes is working for Mycroft Sherlock follows them to a warehouse. A warehouse where Irene is hiding and John is angry and appalled on his behalf because John does not know what he feels for Irene Adler. He might be in love with her and so of course his friend is angry at what he views as a betrayal and John tries to force Irene to revel herself _I’ll come after you if you don’t_ and then John is yelling about the texts - _Well what do you normally say? You’ve texted him a lot -_ his voice suddenly burning and hurt and twisting in on itself _(just like your stomach does, just like your stomach)_ and then Irene mentions “dinner” and John goes quiet and still in a way that he never has. In a way that he never has and Irene is asking if John is jealous… which is ridiculous of course because John is just his friend and they are not a couple just as John informs her. Informs her but does not deny it but surly he is just hearing what he wants to hear and then the text is sent but Sherlock does not care because he needs to get out of here and _think_.

Thinking, as it turns, out, wasn’t happening. Wasn’t happening because Sherlock walks back to the flat in a daze and then…. Then he sees it. The scuff marks on the wall and the scratches and the abandoned cleaning bucket… they’ve taken Mrs. Hudson. They’ve taken her to get to him and oh he is going to kill them. Break them and sever their arteries while cracking their skulls and gouging out their eyes because this is Mrs. Hudson! He goes up the stairs and when he sees it’s the American that threatened John he just barley restrained himself from ripping out his throat, of which he’s had a lot of practice doing _burst the eardrums and stick a knife into a heart and use your hands to break the ribs._ As it is the window will do rather nicely. After all one can only die once, but a window can be used multiple times. Lot more painful as well.

Later that night, after Mrs. Hudson is sleeping soundly and Sherlock has carefully searched her flat for any bugs, John asks him how he’s feeling about Irene Adler being alive. Asks him, in a low voice, if he thinks that he will be seeing her again. Sherlock does not answer him, simply wishes John a happy new year and plays a piece on his violin while John sits and listens. Sherlock does not answer because, other then a sense of intrigue, he does not feel anything about her not being dead, if he’d ever felt anything real in the first place. Nothing except his drive to crack the code and best her returning, and he isn’t sure if John would approve of that or not. Does not replay to the second inquiry because, just for a second, John’s voice had shifted. Shifted into that twisting tone that had been present in the warehouse. A tone that his mind insists is not _, just not_ , how one friend speaks of another. The problem is that Sherlock has not had a friend in almost a centaury, and in that time the acceptable social interactions have changed so much that, if John’s reaction was in any way normal among friends, then Sherlock would be committing a grave social faux that, depending on John’s level of discomfort, could put an end to their friendship. The problem is that from all that Sherlock has observed, his Mate is completely heterosexual and is therefore not the least bit attracted to him. The problem is that if it is his instincts and own desires that are forcing him to see something that is not there and if he were to act on this false assumption…. then the result could range anywhere from advances that were as good as rape even if they were rejected, to John dissolving their relationship completely. Neither option is acceptable, and neither is any answer. So Sherlock plays and allows the questions to go unanswered because he, himself, is not sure of the answer.

*************

Sherlock sits on his bed, noting the way the rising sun turns the room a soft golden orange. It is over, finally, this bissnues with Irene Adler. After the revelation of her continued existence in the warehouse everything had gone relatively quickly, considering.

He had returned home from Barts after finding the explosives implanted within the phone, and had immediately noticed that scent in the air. One of tree sap, copper, hazelnuts and Purple Julie that could only belong to one person. Irene Adler. After waking she had reveled that the prize inside the phone was a string of code, and challenged him to solve it. Challenged him and they’d matched minds and threw the diamond dice and John’s eyes had remained fixed upon them and Irene said she’d have him on the desk until he’d begged for mercy twice. Twice and he refused and allowed the crimson to show in his eyes for he’s never begged for mercy in his life _sun coming towards him and red hot chains around him and those that laugh and sneer and crash their fist and ask if he’s a demon or a spy or someone under the yoke that has run away and ask if he’s had enough yet boy because they can do this all day but can he_.

Later, after it all… after the dummy crash had been reveled as a plan of Mycroft’s doing and _he_ had been the one to derail it and Irene had attempted to put a  stake through the heart by demanding ransom worth more then the Queen… after she’d reveled her contact as the spider masquerading as a man and Sherlock had heard the fear in Mycroft’s voice not because of the risk to his career but because he, Sherlock, hadunwittingly committed the crime of high treason… after he cracked the phones key and tore her world out from under her for he’d taken her pulse there by the fire, for he’d disappointed his brother and had nearly cost him the position and reputation that he’d worked so hard to achieve…. Sherlock had watched.

Watched through the cameras as Moriatry was captured and thrown into a cell. A cell which was located within a building hidden far off into a moor, a place where it was once said that Death held court. Perhaps there is a glimmer of truth to that, for as the creature stands there in the middle of the cell and winks at the camera, Sherlock can see Mycroft watching him from behind a plane of glass. Actual Death Mycroft may not be, but when necessary he is as good as.

A month latter, when Sherlock rescues Irene from a terrorist death and convinces John to allow him to keep her phone as a tribute to her… well, even Death could be fooled as it turns out.

Today The Woman’s’ phone is in his drawer, Moriatry remains safely locked away and John finally safe from harm, and Sherlock has not experienced that crawling of his skin since the night that he accepted a cigarette outside of a morgue. That possibility that he’d hoped for will never occur, he knows, but he is content with that. Perhaps it was never meant to occur. For now, everything is alright. So now Sherlock sits there in the light of the sunrise and just breaths as he basks in the feel of that _not something_ falling on his skin. He has not felt it in years, it seems.


	50. .38

.38

They skim their eyes over the whores that mingle around them, he and his brother as they lean against the cracked stone pillar. They have no interest in whores tonight, not when there is gold to be stolen, power to be gained, and blood to be drunk. Carnal pleasures can wait for the time being.


	51. .39

.39

“Now what’s wrong?” Sherlock asks without bothering to completely leave his mind palace as Mycroft enters the flat, his tread giving away his aggravation.

“Nothing of importance. Just had to meet with the Cambodian ambassador, is all.” Mycroft replies tightly as he sinks into John’s chair.

Ah. _That_ ambassador. The Werejackal whom reeks of fish and is constantly trying figure out “which team” Mycroft prefers, not that the man would ever have the courage to do so to the Vampire’s face.

Once again, why does it matter?

“The fifthly scavenger is a moron. He’s also embezzling quite heavily from the countries’ funds.”

Sherlock speaks casually, not completely focused on the conversation at hand. Yet he can still hear the unspoken gratitude in Mycroft’s posture as he reaches for his phone to inform the proper channels of the man’s tendency towards thievery. Looks like Cambodia will need a new ambassador soon.


	52. .40

.40

The silver door slams shut behind him, and on the other side the male witch whom is his guard heaves a sigh of relief. Sherlock calmly lays on the floor and begins to count the cracks in the ceiling. This is hardly the first time he’s been jailed, after all.


	53. .41

 

.41

**Warnings: Talk of infanticide, infant death, and racial slurs.**

The case that they are working on is proving to be particularly troubling, and for once it is the content rather then the case itself. Sherlock already knows that they are looking for a low income white male, one who’s overweight with red hair, frequents a hot dog stand, works in a hardware store and has a blue bath towel in his possession.

The fact that this man also happens to be a serial killer targeting inter racial infants, focusing  on those whose background is African American and Caucasian, is the troubling part.

As they uncover the fourth infant from a rubbish skip Sherlock does his best to ignore the overwhelming stench of rot around him, donning the plastic gloves to carefully rotate the small, cameral colored head. There. Thin blue threads around the mouth and tangled in the hair. Just as he’d thought.

The sight of him bending down so close to the tiny corpse, of actually touching them, proves to be too much for a member of the Yard. The sounds of retching are quite clear, as is the odor of sauerkraut based vomit that reaches Sherlock’s nose.

“Interesting.” Sherlock says quietly as he reassumes an upright position, pulling off his gloves.

_Mocha skin and frail body and drink it child, please_

“What is?” John asks as he comes to stand beside him, his eyes lingering on the corpse for a moment before flickering away.

Sherlock does not tear his eyes away from the body as he answers, even though he longs to look away.

“There was a time when killing infants such as this was not seen as a crime. It was considered perfectly acceptable, for it was their blood that made them less then human in the eyes of many. In the eyes of those that bore either skin.”

_So you killed the rat, well good riddance, fine job you did there young man_

“You sound as if you’ve had some personal experience with that.” his Mate remarks, watching him carefully.

Sherlock nods before spinning around and stalking off, hearing John close on his heels as always.

“You’re looking for the same killer, Lestrade. Most likely has residence in Dubin. Text me when you find him.”

Sherlock had not bothered to stop to speak to the Detective, whom yells after his retreating, coat covered back. Continuing on his way Sherlock remains silent as he weaves in and out of people’s way, hearing Johns’ hasty apologies as he attempts to keep up.

Finally pausing Sherlock leans against a phone booth as he waits for John to catch up, his fingers itching for a cigarette. Too bad he’s trying to quit. John arrives at his side, panting slightly.

_Fingers grasping even as wails cease and heartrate slows and there’s nothing nothing nothing nothing to be done_

“Here Go ahead. You look like you could use it.” John says as he holds out a lighter and a lone cigarette.

Surprising. You’d think that John, being a Doctor and all, would be against him smoking regardless of the cirmstances.

“Thanks. I thought I threw them all out.”

“Must have missed one. I found it inside the telly.”

_Ahh. The one that he’d “forgotten”. Yes._

Lighting it Sherlock inhales deeply, the sensation of hundreds of plants entering his lungs soothing him slightly. The pleasure centers in his brain are most likely lightening up like bombs after three days of denying himself.

The taste of raspberry seeds and foxglove is particularly strong in this one. Interesting. As the scent of Mint curls up around them the face of the infant resting on the skip flashes through his mind, - _thin and cold upon the burlap and tiny foot brushing the grass_ \- causing his shoulders to tighten in response to the memories waiting just below the surface.

Sherlock takes a drag and blows out the smoke, making sure that it does not disperse into the fibers of his scarf as he does so.

John is watching him. Always watching. Sherlock knows that if he really tried he could hide this from John. Could make it invisible and pass it off as a moment of sentiment. He doesn’t want to.

He begins lowly, aware of the people passing by.

“Her name was Melody. She was born in Georgia in 1812, her mother being a runaway slave that I had become acquainted with. There was nothing forced about our union, but when she fell pregnant she did not want the child all the same.”

_Hands on hips and eyes flashing I ain’t goona have a chil’ for ya’ll to take away again and the baby is mocha and cream and flings out a hand to hit his nose as she looks at him with pools of jet and she’s perfect and he’s laughing and laughing_

Pausing to take another drag Sherlock stares at the people milling about in front of him, for once his mind free of deductions.

“So what did she do?” John prompts.

Sherlock shrugs, trying to appear unconcerned. He doubts that John believes it.

“She stayed long enough to wean Melody, then left her with me. A few weeks later Melody became ill, an immediate cause for concern, for it was common for children to die within the first few months of life. I tried everything, John. Gave her my blood, hired a Nursemaid, even tried to administer herbs that were medicinal for my kind as well as hers. Nothing worked and she died almost a month after falling ill.”

_The wormwood and violet and the sunflowers and crimson flowing thick from his wrist and milk running white and she’s skin and bones and dull onyx eyes and the old black witch says I cry with you sir_

His cigarette is almost gone. He doesn’t recall smoking it. What a waste.

“Back there at the skip, you said that you had experience with people thinking that children like Melody were… a third class citizen?”

Sherlock nods.

“Yes. I sought churches, both legal and non, that willing to allow me to bury my daughter. All of them refused her, for her blood was of black and white, and therefore she was not fit to lie beneath their earth.”

_Small and frail and wrapped in a blanket, get that thing out of here, not god’s creation that is, this here’s a place for us black folks not the half-breed mutts_

“So what did you do to them?” It is a mark of how well John knows him that he doesn’t assume that he had simply allowed that to stand, that he can still hear the anger in his voice after all these years.

“After I buried her in the forest I killed all whom had denied her, and Mycroft burned the churches down.”

_Grass and trees and upturned earth and his throat is closing and lungs burning, bones popping and smoke curling and twin fangs flash and guts spill and breath chokes and flames leap and eyes roll and red – always red - blood spurts._

John takes his hand and lightly kisses his inner wrist, right over his Claim mark.

“I would’ve done the same thing, more or less.”

Sherlock smiles, feeling unbelievably grateful that John is working this case with him, that he can spot the anger in Johns’ stance. Anger over a child that he’d never known.

Inside his pocket Sherlock’s phone dings.

Lestrade texting him.

Another case solved.


	54. .42

.42

 

The Vampire’s fangs  tear into his neck, and as his vision begins to fade, his body already numb, Sherlock can’t help but think that dying isn’t really so bad, after all.


	55. .43

.43

The day that John finds out about Andrew it is raining.  Andrew enters the flat, shoulders squared and hair slightly wet and his gray suit giving off a slight odor of processed food. Sherlock eyes his Mate, whom is frowning at his brother in slight puzzlement (for John had just seen him this morning in heels and polished nails), before the realization dawns on his face.  It takes a minute or two to process, but by the time the coffee has been brewed and poured John passes it to him with an easy smile and Andrew accepts, relief in his eyes as he puts away his Blackberry.


	56. .44

.44

They watch from afar, he and Anthea, as the Dakota people are driven from their land by the white men, struggling to carry themselves and their few possessions as they march for days, leaving a trail of tears in their wake.


	57. .45

.45

Some days, the days that they come over (or on rare occasions, Sherlock is the one to visit them) and he sees the tightness of Mycroft’s jaw or the almost invisible shutters in Andrews’ eyes, Sherlock knows.

Knows that some leader has sneered at Anthea or a coworker or random passerby has made a cutting remark about Andrew. It may have been that Antheas’ great aunt had stopped by to visit only to call her an worthless transvestite or that the Werewolf from budgeting had called Andrew Miss  despite his bound chest because he could tell it made bile rise in Andrew’s throat.

Knows that someone calls Andrew pretty as opposed to handsome or asks if Anthea is in drag.

Knows that someone (someone outside of Mycroft’s direct influence, someone whom has the free will to say what they wish and whose throat his fangs cannot meet) has hurt Anthea, simply for being whom he is. 

Sherlock hates them for that.


	58. 14

 

Chapter Fourteen

Fear. It is a strange thing. An emotion powerful enough to cripple you, yet also one that has lead to the death of millions.

That is what Sherlock has been feeling, as he sits in this lounge and tries to drink substandard brandy, watching John walk away.

Fear.

Fear that causes his hands to shake and heart to pound, sweet to wet his skin and muscles to tremble and his fangs ache to be exposed. Fear as he has not felt in ages, fear that causes the predator within him pace and snarl and ache to kill that which threatens it. For out their in the woods he’d seen something that could _not_ exist. In all his years if there’s been one thing Sherlock can count on it is his senses. Sight, hearing, smell and touch… they’ve never failed him. He’d always counted on them, had never doubted himself because of the information they gave him. That was what he’d experienced tonight. Doubt. How do you explain that? The sheer fear the emotion brings? To a mortal whose short life almost ensures that they will feel doubt on a semi regular basis? You can’t. Not when you yourself have walked this earth for over 5,000 years and have experienced it only a handful of times. And those times have been so long ago that they have been stored away in your mind and have faded until they are little more than a faint recollection.  

Always, when it counted, he’d been able to detach himself from his emotions. To shove them down and look past them and see what was really there. Until tonight, it seemed. For out there in the woods with Henry Knight he had seen it. Seen what every mortal had mistaken for a Hound (and he, himself, a Pookla, playing tricks and spreading fear as they are wont to do), the very one that Henry insisted killed his father. A rabid werewolf. One the size of a Draft Horse with red eyes and dripping yellow fangs.

The problem was that Sherlock had not detected even the slightest hint of a Werewolves’ scent anywhere in Baskerville. Not along the gleaming white corridors nor within the sterile laboratories and most certainly not inside the cages. The only animals present were of the ordinary verity, nothing like that about them at all. Even the scientists, cleaning staff, and army personal were Human (with the exception of the Kelpie that lead them inside Baskerville, that is). The grounds were free of the scent as well. Free of Werewolf as well as Pookla, for it appeared that neither had crossed these grounds in over a hundred years.

For another? Not only could neither creature not reach that size, but nor could they go rabid. They could be as vicious and bloodthirsty and cruel as the next creature, but _rabid_ they did not become. They could not contract rabies while in any form, nor did their human minds ever suffer from mental illness. It was theorized that their dual natures made their minds especially resilient. Vampires, on the other had _could_ become insane. It was rare, to be sure, but it could still occur. If that is what is happening to him… he wouldn’t blame Mycroft if he killed him. For an insane Vampire is a thousand times more deadly then a sane one… but he couldn’t be insane because he’d had no pervious symptoms. Nothing had been amiss. So why was his scenes telling him of the existence of something that could not possibly be real? Telling him of something that he _doubts_ to be true?

That is not all that is frightening him, Sherlock knows. The fact that Moriatry is locked away just thirty miles from their current location has also been causing that feeling to rise up inside of him, although until tonight it had been faint. A sensation of simple anxiety that forced him to make sure John was within sight or hearing range at all times, even though he knew it was entirely unnecessary. The elder Vampire was locked up tighter then a bank at Fort Knox and stood no chance of escaping. Tonight, however, that fear has increased to a near unbearable degree. In fact, when he drives John away with his cruel words (cruel for all that they are true, for he does not have friends, just _a_ friend) he has to force himself from getting up and following John, from locking them both up inside a room and chaining the door shut, from holding John against him so that he cannot get away, from keeping him in sight in case – in case what?

In case Moriatry can walk through walls?

 It was foolish.

John himself knew full well where Moriatry was and he was not afraid. John did not experience the need to touch him and keep him in sight while straining his hearing for the slightest whisper of _him_. For the one determined to burn his heart. The sounds of John’s footfalls have faded off into the distance somewhere outside, no longer distinguishable amidst the stream of noises surrounding him. It makes him even more uneasy. Sherlock has to make his Mate come back to the hotel, back to safety, back to him. Away from a rabid werewolf or an insane shapeshifter running on the moor and a vampire whom sat quite calmly in a prison cell, regardless of Mycroft’s swinging hand. If he tried to follow him himself John would just ignore him and tell him to go away, the hurt that he’d caused him still stinging. Something else, however….. seeing Henry Knight’s therapist out of the corner of his eye Sherlock snaps a picture of her, this woman whom he knows John will find desirable. Ignoring the newly formed knot in his chest and the crawling of his skin Sherlock sends the image. If encouraging his Mate’s…. female copulation attempts will get him to return to where he is most safe then Sherlock will do it in spite of the wave of revulsion the act brings.

****************

The next morning Sherlock apologizes and his stomach looseness when John accepts and says that he didn’t get anywhere with the therapist and then Lestrade shows up on Mycroft’s orders and they learn that there was a dog but it’s dead and then there’s the sugar…. Sherlock does feel bad about that, using it on John, but John had been perfectly safe and Sherlock had done his best to reassure him after the… study was concluded, but he’d needed to determine if he was insane or some other chemical was responsible for this mass hullacantion.

 Chemical indeed.

For when they hacked into Dr. Franklins files and found project HOUND… he’s seen horrible experiments before _twins sown together and ice picks shoved into brains and the insane locked away and people insisting that next time they will get it right_ but this was by far the most horrible thing he’s seen in years.

Frontal lobe damage, highly suggestible to fear based stimuli, bleeding in the brain, paranoia, severe mental and bodily trauma, extreme aggression and the subjects committing homicide after homicide, suicide after suicide… and the scientists continuing to experiment for three years.

It was shut down of course, but as with many experiments someone – Dr. Franklin, it turns out – has been working on “perfecting it” for over twenty years, attempting to refine the drug in an effort to finish what was started. Driving people to become insane murderers all for the sake of war. Of doing away the enemy while, at the same time, creating their version of a perfect solider. Creating something that will never exist, for these mortals never learn. You take away something vital and you leave a hole, and the thing that fills that hole is something more terrible then you can imagine, something that will kill the very individuals that placed it there.

***********

On the train ride home, after Dr. Franklins suicide and the revelation about Henry’s father, John falls asleep beside him. As Sherlock lies them down and carefully covers John with his coat before wrapping an arm around his Mate’s form and pulls him closer, breathing in his scent and feeling a flash of warmth as John scoots closer to him in his sleep, his fingers curling around his shirt front, Sherlock recalls how he’d been convinced he’d seen Moriatry out there on the moor. How terrified he had been, convinced that Anthea and Mycroft had somehow been killed and that John’s life may be next. How he’d almost violated one of their highest laws and reveled himself to a mortal in a gas mask because of the moss spores in the air which were combining with HOUND, and how he hadn’t cared.

 Yes.

Fear, _emotions_ can be very inconvenient at times.

But as Sherlock kisses his Mate’s forehead and strokes his back beneath the heavy wool of his coat as he fights to stay awake, not wishing to miss a second of the time that he is able to hold his Mate in a way he will be unlikely to ever again, Sherlock does not doubt that if given a choice he would not give them up. For it is emotion that makes him capable of this. That makes him capable of looking at his Mate’s face and murmuring the phrases of savage places in their entirety.

He is asleep when his phone beeps, the message reading: _We let him go._

 


	59. .45

.46

Cards are dueled out, Mycroft eyes his opponents with an expression of steel, Sherlock casually twirls his gun while keeping his fangs hidden, and money changes hands.


	60. .47

.47

Sherlock comes to in an empty, one room flat with a horrible taste in his mouth and a needle hanging from his arm, not in the least bit concerned that he doesn’t know how he came to be here.


	61. .48

.48

Sherlock floats in a small, rough wooden boat in the middle of the ocean. He didn’t pay attention to which ocean it was when he launched the boat, for they are all the same after a while. Water and ice cold wins, a sun that will kill him and so is to be avoided, and a night sky, clear and inky black intermingling with brilliant pinpricks of light, and in the near deafening silence Sherlock wishes he could touch them. Always wishes.


	62. .49

.49

 “What’s up with all of Anthea’s names, anyway Sherlock? I mean I understand Andrew, but why the rest?” his Mate questions one day as Mycroft and Gwendolyn exit the flat. Sherlock pauses before speaking, before reveling that which his sibling may not whish reveled.

Before saying that it is her choice, and for one whom was born and lived life a slave, whom has the scars upon their back and the burns on their breasts and the number carved into their inner arm, whom even now occasionally has the memories return as nightmares -  

 _(screaming and hissing and rip out their guts and chock back sobs and lay stone still and strain your ears and feel the war dumb beat of your heart because you're expecting the overseers grip and the crunch of bone and your knees to hit the floor and when the scent of_ ** _Mate_** _((cranberries and cinnamon and home, laughter and anger and pens on paper and answering "yes" before you've even really begun to ask) morphs into_ ** _it_** _((urine and sand and cowhide and sweat and blood and terror and agony and violation and kill them before they kill you but you_ ** _can't_** _and work until muscles burn  and legs tremble and cuts burst and the old mens skulls meet the rocks- and it's all so normal and right except it's **not,** but it is, **it is** \- and children's necks snap and mothers scream frozen screams)) fangs almost sink into flesh - almost deliver the killing blow - and there is no realization for the eyes are not seeing and so you snap again and again and again because you _**_can't_** _but this time you_ ** _will_** _...)_    

 _\- choice_ is often what counts the most.

 Before replaying that it is, in part, a method of detaching himself somewhat from being Mate and spouse and allowing herself to slip into the role of PA and wrist breaker, for the work that he and Mycroft accomplish is far too delicate for even a minor misstep.

Before reveling that it has become such a part of her that she would have trouble copeing without it, and even though Mycroft finds some of his names outlandish he couldn’t cope without _her_ , and so he has never asked him to stop.

“I suggest you ask Gwendolyn yourself, John.” Sherlock replies before turning John’s crap telley back on, choosing not to revel anything at all.


	63. .50

.50

Mycroft is carrying an umbrella. Odd. Why is he carrying that? The last time Sherlock saw him he’d been swinging a cane.


	64. 15

 

Chapter Fifteen

To say that Sherlock is nervous is an understatement. Terrified, would be more accurate. Breath and heart rate slightly accelerated, fangs ready to drop and stomach churning…. but he can’t show it.

Not here.

Not on this rooftop.

Not in front of James Moriatry, the Elder whom he’d give anything to kill.

Would love to shatter his bones and burn him at the stake and make him _scream_ for all of this; the publicity and stealing the crown jewels, the court case and Kitty Riley and Richard Brooke and dragging his name through the mud along with those assassins… had not simply been about him. Oh he is the largest factor, Sherlock is sure, a game that Moriatry has grown tired of, but John has also been targeted throughout all of this.

Just as with the pool Moriatry knew the surest way to get to him; threaten his Mate. For if _he_ went down, if people turned on _him_ and those Werewolves decided to kill _him_ then John would become an object of  ridicule and slander and face a crowbar to the head as sure as anything.

As sure as anything for John struck a policeman for him and didn’t want people to think badly of him and looked at Kitty Riley with disgust and spoke to Brooke with killing rage and forced blood down his throat and had watched him with that _something_ in his eyes after he learned that Moriatry came for tea.

As sure as anything because fear for John constantly plagued him and sleep evaded him and Mycroft and Anthea kept watch for him and he’d wanted so badly to Claim once again and Molly saw right through him and was still willing to help him.

Because his Mate had neither left no doubted him, and Moriatry knew that _knew that and all of it times ten because the owls and ravens surly report back to him_ and Moriatry had promised to burn his heart.

Yes.

There is nothing that Sherlock would love more then to kill him, but the law prevents it and ties his hands and stills his fangs and so he can do nothing once again.

Nothing as he learns it’s a bogus code and watch as Moriatry’s disappointment escalates and the only thing that he can do is talk. Talk and grab and threaten and press his fangs ever closer to the throat that the very marrow of his bones prevents him from ripping and caution Moriatry not to assume that he’s an angel or his brother and promise to shake hands with him in hell _he’s not Michael nor Gabriel but rather_ _Abaddon and Flauros and Bernael_ _and he is willing to make a jigsaw puzzle out of his flesh and drag him down into the lake of death where Satan rests_.

Nothing except feel his heart stop once again when he’s told that John has a snipers’ gun trained on him and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson the same and that he has to jump otherwise his heart and friends are dead…

and when Moriatry shoots himself with the silver in the British Browning…

when he ensures that jumping is the only way….

when causing his Mate that same coal black soul shattering pain that he, himself, has experienced far, _far_ more then once is the sole option…

when Sherlock is forced to stand on the edge in front of John and apologize and lie and beg him to back away for that gun is still trained _please can you do this for me_ and warn him of smoke and mirrors _it’s a trick, just a magic trick_ and the tears upon his face are not faked _this phone call it’s my note, that’s what people do don’t they, leave a note_ …

when John refuses to listen _stop, just stop this_ and pleads and still does not doubt _you could_ and uses his Doctors’ voice that is eggshell brittle and razor blade sharp _do what, the first time we met, alright alright_ and his hand is shaking and his limp is returning _leave a note when_ …

when Sherlock says goodbye _goodbye and everything he can say but not everything that he wants to_ and jumps and falls and feels his heart pounding out that pulsating beat of the war drums an instant before his body only breaks and freezes as Molly’s magic does its work….

when John screams his name and staggers shoves the crowd and tries to take his pulse and _I’m a doctor that’s my friend that’s my friend oh Jesus no_ and falls to the ground and Sherlock lies there in his blood and feels his heart ache for he knows that his Mate is shattering and falling and that he cannot catch him….

There is nothing that he can do.

 

************

 

 

The second Molly closes the door to the morgue the light on the camera blinks out and Sherlock sits up, throwing the sheet off himself. He does not look at the bodies around him ( dead as he should be, as John thinks him to be) and walks out the back door into the black car waiting for him.

He sits on the seat, his body only aching slightly less then it had been three hours pervious, and watches Mycroft and Anthea, whom watch him in turn. They don’t speak, these two whom have known him for so long that it seems like forever, even though of course it’s not. They know why he has done what he’s done, why he’s jumped from a roof in front of his Mate and left John broken and grief stricken (nightmare ridden) once more. They understand why he, in effect, died for his Mate. They understand where he’s going, whom he’s going to kill and why, for Moriatry has many more flies trapped in his web, and each are capable of destroying Sherlock’s world. He will not allow that and nor would his siblings, if their positions were reversed.

So four days later Sherlock stands at the graveyard, out of sight, and watches his Mate struggle not to cry as he says goodbye to an empty coffin, alone. Sherlock aches to go to John, to revel that it was all smoke and mirrors and that his body was never really broken on the pavement and that he loves him ( _he loves him, he loves him, he loves him_ ). If he were to that then John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would be in danger again, and although the loss of the two would devastate him, the loss of the one would end him, especially if (because) he would be the cause. He would jump from that rooftop a thousand times, if it meant saving John.

Sherlock remains hidden and when John walks away he sends a brief message to Mycroft, alerting him that he is ready. Ready for the hunt. Ready for the kill. Ready for that thing that mortals assume consumes a vampires’ thoughts. It is not so (and what would they say, if they knew that Mycroft craves Anthea’s safety as she loves the night lights dancing upon her skin and that he, Sherlock, wants nothing more then to go home and take his Mate in his arms and whisper _sorry, sorry, so sorry_ )?

It is not so but he must be ready all the same, and so he is.

He does not ask them to take care of John. He doesn’t need to.

He isn’t sure if he needed to tell them to give his coat and scarf to John, but does so anyway.

 

**Gabriel – archangel whom is often a messenger of God**

**Bernael - fallen angel of darkness and evil.**

**Flauros - fallen angel who appears as a leopard**

**Abaddon - fallen angel of death**


	65. .51

.51

Mycroft lingers for a moment to enjoy the last of the moonlight before retiring to their cave, the tunnel wrapping them in darkness and their bedding of wolf, caribou, and bear fur providing them with warmth from the freezing weather. Providing them with a continued existence, for all that mortals assume otherwise.


	66. .52

.52

The Raven caws. Harsh and low as it takes flight, spreading the death of Morgana with each slow beat of its wings.


	67. 16

 

**Kudos if you cath my little reference to Jim/female! Moran... although it's pretty hard to miss.**

 

Chapter Sixteen

 

This is how it goes. For three years this is how it goes;

********

Skin the one in Paris.

Break the man in Singapore.

In Holland tie up the woman and burn the flat with her still inside.

********

Don’t think about John.

Put Mycroft out of you mind.

Replace Andrew’s face.

_Don’t, Put, and Replace._

 Fail.

Try again. Secede.

Try once again.

Fail.

********

Drink coffee on a rooftop in Cairo, wait for the vampire to come out, splatter her brains onto the pavement.

Drown the human in New York City, drink blood and wait for the scratches to stop bleeding.

Gut the Werefox in Dhaka, drink something that is more red then black (or is it more black then red) and wait for her cries to leave your head.

*******

Notice it is Mrs. Hudson’s birthday. Wonder what she is doing. Choke on the water.

********

In Ottawa puncture the lung.

In Prague  break the neck.

In San Salvador do it all over again.

********

Look at John’s blog and try not to feel as if there’s a fist in your stomach when you realize his account’s been deactivated.

*********

Poison them in Maryland, three this time, and sleep the sleep of the dead even though nightmares invade your head.

Cracked skull in Pamplona, only two, and cover the mirror up.

Slit the throat in Athens, just one, and wash the blood from your hands.

*******

Burn the computer, stare at the ceiling, and picture Anthea’s horrified expression at your abuse of technology. Notice that you’re wearing filthy clothes and think of Mycroft’s scandalized look.

*********

Rip the throat out in Port-au-Prince.

Overdose in Dublin.

Take the shot in Jerusalem.

********

The dream wakes you. Breathing hurts. You tell yourself it was just a dream, that John did not take a bullet to the brain. Breathing still hurts. You keep breathing.

 

******

Stockholm, go fang to fang with a vampire, even though it almost kills you. Shove the body into the sun.

Bangkok, and the werewolf breaks your ribs. Soak the corpse in acid, grit your teeth, light a cigarette, and keep on walking.

Pyongyang, two humans and a gun and your hands. Dig the bullet out, stifle your scream, pop your shoulder back into place. Weigh the bodies down with rocks and put them into the river.

*******

View the photos on Molly’s blog, look at the pitchers of her and Lestrade, read the messages, think of commenting but don’t. Later, when the wedding photos are posted you spend more time staring at the blurry caption of John then the bride and groom.

Later, when you wake with that all too familiar hardness between your legs and your Mate’s scent lingering in your nose and forgiveness and love you and calloused palms and   _yes, oh god yes_ dancing though your mind, you tear your bottom lip to ribbons with your fangs and refuse to touch yourself, after all you’re technically dead, and dean men don’t get that. Dead men never get that.

********

Decapite the body in Rome, consume fruit juice,  and watch the news.

Assisted suicide in Washington, sit on the bed and sip water.

Stabbing in Nassau, down a bottle of brandy when you realize she was pregnant.

********

Sit in a café, wear glasses and a cheap suit. Stir cream into the tea, the spoon going around and around. Think of the last time you were in a booth and wait for those words concerning a thresher's flail to come. Hold your breath and force yourself not to shatter the ceramic when there is only silence.

***********

When that child invades your sleeping mind once again you drink yellow water and amber wine and tea while the dark is still swirling with white despite your shaking hands and you stay away from anything red, for you awoke with the phantom taste of blood dancing across your tongue.

***********

Take the shot and fill the lungs.

********

Dream, scream, and imagine the shape of the devil, the one that dresses in Westwood and laughs the Bogart’s laugh and _Daddy’s had enough nooow._

_********_

Claw and fang and plunge the knife.

********

Play with a phone, long to use it, don’t.  

********

Use your hands and fire and then your hands again.

********

Wash your body, spit out blood, poke the bruises, and laugh even though there’s nothing to laugh at.

********

Glass, powder, and a fireplace poker.

********

Breathing hurts, but everything hurts, so you keep breathing.

********

A car, a rope, and the knife once more.

********

Do it again and again, and all over again.

********

Thrice more, nine times more, five time more.

********

Drink a gallon of red and pot of black, then a pot of red and a gallon of black, then something that is a gallon and a pot of red-on-black-black-on-red.

********

Come to the end, to a woman with tiger scars and cigarettes and a trigger finger, with ebony hair and gleaming pearl fangs and ruby red lips that gets her hands dirty and tries to kill you for sending her Mate to Hades (and it appears _No one ever gets to me_ was a lie after all, after all and forever and a day). Put a silver bullet through her chest, burn the corpse.

********

Go home.


	68. .53

.53

Sherlock paces the length of the small, well concealed cave in which they hide. With each step the iron collar around his neck shifts, cutting his skin. Mycroft watches from his spot on the straw filled pallet, his own collar just as heavy and unforgiving around his throat. They remain in the cave, the small fire the only source of light and drink cold preacquired blood, trying to keep themselves form expiring from boredom while straining their ears for the slightest hint of the King’s forces.


	69. .54

 

 .54

The animals have moved on and so do the humans. They follow the humans of course, the predator becoming the prey.


	70. 17

 

Chapter Seventeen

Of course going home is not that easy, not that Sherlock thought it would be. The world has changed, people have moved on. Life (existence) keeps going. As is natural, of course, but it still causes a twinge in his chest nonetheless. Perhaps due to cowardness John is not the first one whom Sherlock seeks after arriving in London, even though his mind is demanding that he check on his Mate. His siblings are first, and after three years of complete silence (three years of wondering if he were dead and Mycroft collecting more liquor and firing employees that displayed the slightest bit of incompetence while Anthea worked her way through yet another library and all but wore holes through the floor) they are more then relieved to see him. Andrew laughs and hugs him while looking like he wants to punch him at the same time. Mycroft squeezes his arm and offers him tea, the message much more reserved but clear all the same.  They do not ask about the tiredness in his eyes, and Sherlock is glad of it.

************

Lestrade and Molly (Mr. and Mrs. Lestrade, Sherlock reminds himself) are next. They are…. slightly more difficult. Sherlock walks up the driveway of a modest house in a clean if not entirely cookie cutter neighborhood (Mycroft’s way of repaying Molly for her hand in his “death”, if her hints on her blog were to be believed), and knocks on the door. The immediate reactions are as follows: Lestrade gapes before punching him, breaking his nose. Molly shrieks and begins to stammer explanations, although weather to her husband or himself Sherlock is not quite sure. In between Lestrade swearing at him and Molly explaining as she mixes up gel of alluvia juice, cinnamon, and blueberry pulp for his nose the full story comes out.  Although Lestrade claims to understand he is still not pleased, but he does take the revelation of Sherlock’s true nature surprisingly well. According to Lestrade he’d always suspected there was something “creepily off” about him, and considering Lestrade posses full knowdgle that Molly is a practicing Witch and has spell books and practices magic and works with herbs and bones, it would be very unlike the Lestrade Sherlock remembers to not accept him.

As it turns out Lestrade is still a Detective Inspector and appears much the same, if not a bit more lined about the face with a touch of darker silver about his temples. Molly is… well more mature is perhaps the best word to describe her. It is there in her face and around her eyes, the manner in which she holds herself and how her voice no longer stutters when she speaks to him. Their son most likely has something to do with Molly’s change in demeanor. Nathan Harrison Lestrade, a chubby one year old boy with curly brown hair and green eyes that smells of milk and bathwater and lemon rind that stares at Sherlock for a few moments before offering him a soggy, half eaten cookie.None of them inquire as to the scar on his neck even though their stares indicate their desire to do so. Sherlock ignores the scar’s existence, and so do they.

*************

Mrs. Hudson is more difficult then Molly and Lestrade, if only because at the prospect of facing her Sherlock experiences an emotion that he recalls as being remarkably similar to what he experienced when he’d upset Mummy. So, at a loss as to what to do Sherlock sneaks (breaks) into her flat to quietly prepare tea in a futile hope that it will ease her into things. Sherlock had heard her get up of course, but he was not expecting the beaker full of pepper spray that his eyes received. As Sherlock washed out his eyes in the kitchen sink Mrs. Hudson scolded him for twenty minutes straight before calmly sitting down at the table and sipping the now lukewarm tea. Apparently she had known about his false suicide ever since a week past his funeral, for Molly had been unable to keep her guilt entirely to herself. If she notices that Sherlock no longer takes cream in his tea she is polite enough not to mention it.

 

 ****************

John. John is hard to say the least. It is not just because Sherlock’s heart stutters and his thoughts race incoherently when he claps eyes on his Mate, whom is thinner with bags under his eyes and looks so very tired (as tired as Sherlock feels, if not more so). It is not just because John leans against the fridge and laughs for a full minute before punching him and screaming at him to get out.

Nor is it just because the flat still looks very much the same and, although unfamiliar scents linger in the air indicting that John has brought strangers into the flat they are stale, several months old at the very least – _at the very least, **thank god** at the very least_ – nor is it because Mycroft has told Sherlock about John’s rapid decline following his “suicide” or that guilt has been eating away at him for years or because of the manner in which his entire body (even his fangs for sunlight’s sake) _ache_.

It is not because even though Sherlock knows his hands are clean – _clean for he scrubbed them again and again, scrubbed as the bodies cooled behind him and he forced the hisses back down and the taste of iron still lingered in his mouth, scrubbed with steaming water and soap and bleach and tomato juice and vanilla beans and everything else, scrubbed until the skin was raw and his nailbeds stung and the natural alabaster hue gleamed_ \-  he could still feel the blood coating his hands.

 Nor is it because Sherlock’s mind, normally spinning at a tornado’s pace, has becomes still as he greedily takes in the form that for so long has only existed in his mind’s eye.

It is all of that and more ( _a lifetime and three years and leave a note when and use a rope take the shot drink a pot of red **more**_ ). So Sherlock does the only thing that he can do. He waits outside the door when John leaves the flat and remains there when he gets back. He phones Mycroft to locate John’s whereabouts when John fails to show up. Even when John yells and shoves him Sherlock only does it back and keeps his feet firmly planted where they are and listens to the angry bangs and crashes inside the flat to make sure that John has not harmed himself, even though every noise are clear indictors that Sherlock’s presence is not welcome, for he left his Mate once and he will not do so again.

After three weeks John finally allows Sherlock access to the flat, and though John does not say a single word to him for another week, at least Sherlock is inside. After three years he can finally smell and see his Mate (he cannot touch, not yet, not in the way John will accept and never how his own body still craves), and for now that is enough.

It is not enough when he falls ill, the illness a minor one that Sherlock has not experienced since he played the part of a ginger haired man onboard a wooden vesscal. A minor illness, yet an illness all the same. It is not quite enough when Sherlock is shivering and coughing and only half awake, and John sits beside him. It is not enough when, regardless of Mycroft and Anthea’s blurry forms standing in the kitchen, John speaks to him. Speaks of pleasure domes and fields, his voice low and soothing. It is enough when a feeling of safety, of calm, washes over him, carrying him into sleep.

**********

 

The thing that breaks the ice around the wall of silence that John has imposed occurs, over all things, their morning beverage. John, Sherlock is pleased to note, still takes sugar in his tea, and is usually on his second cup by the time Sherlock decides to join him. Sherlock, however, now takes his coffee with a large does of blood. Before the fall, before three years of _going_ he had never done so, for he hadn’t been able to stand the copper taste of blood mixing with the plant based flavor of the coffee.

Well, that was _before_ after all.

As Sherlock, still half asleep,  pours the steaming liquids into the same mug before taking a grateful sip and leans against the counter, he becomes aware of John staring at him. At first Sherlock dose not understand why, for John has become accustomed once again to seeing him in his pajamas at ten in the morning, the case files that are spread out on the table (all of which Lestrade is still denying him formal access to), as well as the violin music that had briefly awoken John during the night.

“All right, why are you doing that?” John asks, his voice sharp with annoyance as well as grudging curiosity.

For a moment Sherlock remains silent, too grateful and surprised that John is speaking to him to immediately respond.

“Doing what?” Sherlock hastens to ask when Johns’ face begins to flush.

“Putting blood in your coffee. You’ve never done that before.”

Sherlock blinks down at the mug in his hand, for combining the liquids had become such a habit that he had failed to actually notice that he was doing it. He stares down at the still surface of the ruby tinged onyx (or is it onyx tinged ruby?) and ponders how to respond to Johns’ inquiry.

“You know what? Just forget I asked. It doesn’t matter.” Johns’ voice holds a trace of bitterness as he gets up from the table.

Not acceptable.

“When I was hunting _them_ I would occasionally neglect to eat as well as sleep, and it became so that I could no longer tell if my exhaustion was due to hunger or a lack of rest. Providing that I had, in fact, slept that week, I would consume my meal along with caffeine. I was able to remain awake for longer periods of time. Eventually I began to prefer it.”

This is all said in a single breath. Rushed and frantic for Sherlock was afraid that John would walk out before he had a chance to speak, before John knew that he, Sherlock, was not attempting to evade the question.

He is not attempting to conceal anything from John, and it is important that his Mate know that. John studied him for a minute, no doubt searching for any evidence that he was being lied to. Finally John nods, accepting the answer for what it was.

“Thanks.” He says stiffly before choosing to remain seated at the table. Sherlock drinks his coffee while John consumes his tea. There is silence in the kitchen, one that is thick and filled with things left unsaid, but Sherlock would not triad it for all the noise in the world.

************

One month latter it is not enough. It is not enough when John sits him down and makes him talk. Talk Sherlock does. He talks, explains, apologies, revels some of what he’s done and apologies some more and some more and some more. John… John listens with a face of stone before talking himself - _my gun was staring to look real good for a while there, you know-,_ talking which gradually turns into yelling and that almost crying which mortal men often seem to do - _you **killed** yourself in front of me you bastard, you were dead and buried and you jumped in front of my eyes and goddam it Sherlock you shouldn’t have done that and you can’t really expect this to just work out and be wrapped up in a neat little bow can you? - _ and Sherlock aches to pull John against him even if John pushes him away. Longs to but does not – cannot – because John has set limits and Sherlock will not violate them.

It is not enough when those little things start to crop up, things that Sherlock knows John notices;

How the showers are always short and the ease at which Sherlock puts together a rifle even though, to the best of Johns’ recollection, Sherlock had never touched on before.

How there’s a box of hair dye and colored contacts in his dresser drawer and the way in which, more often then not, he moves in complete silence; dressing, setting down a cup, walking and thumbing through a book and even the rise and fall of his chest. All completely silent.

How fire makes him nervous and the way knives dance between his fingers.

 How many times a day he washes his hands (Five? Eight? Or is it six more then that?) even though they are as clean as John has ever seen them _clean, not dirty, they’re raw and white not red and slick and the only blood is your own you fool!_

How when the dreams come (dark and confusing with eyeless faces staring at him, dreams violent enough that when Mycroft attempts to awaken him his Elder’s shoulder is dislocated before Sherlock has even opened his eyes) and John looks at him like he wants to touch him but just returns his coat and scarf instead, leaving Sherlock to wrap the garments around himself and stare into the darkness and breath in John’s scent… it is not enough.

Two weeks latter it is not enough when Sherlock’s screams awaken John. It is not enough when Sherlock wakes clawing at his throat and John, upon seeing his throat bare for the first time since Sherlock forced his way back into his life, also sees the scars; bite marks, ragged and torn spreading from his collarbone to the underside of his chin, and begins to understand just a little. It is not enough when John gently asks about how those marks came to be there and Sherlock stares at his hands and revels that he cannot say because he honestly does not recall whom (or, indeed, what) caused the marks, for they all had long since blurred together – _vampire, human, werewolf, werehawk, human and human and twice around the merry-go-round again? Blonde or red or brownish-gray or a mixture of all and none and then some? Yank the knife, break the skull, pull out the guts and remove the skin and pull the trigger back and back and back?_ – and when Sherlock haltingly says that although the killing was troublesome becoming a machine is what bothered him the most because _it_ and _them_ never ceased and so neither did he. Because even though he’s killed people before it had never been one after the other like that, never an endless line of stilled hearts and blank eyes and blood running cold but he but he’d do it all over again without hesitation and when he’s shaking (shaking and shaking and he cannot stop shaking) John pulls him against his chest and holds him and Sherlock’s arms are wrapped around his Mate tightly enough to bruise but John does not care….. it is _almost_ enough.

 

************

Two months later, when it is enough, this is how it happens;

Sherlock is lying on the couch deleting things in his mind palace when John comes home, his steps slow and slightly heavy. He’s heard something that has shocked him. Either his sister has called (unlikely, seeing as it is not evening or a Tuesday, the only day of the week that the liquor store that Harry Watson frequents offers discounted liquor), or it has something to do with Sherlock himself. As John comes closer to the sofa Sherlock catches the scent of leather, ebony, cinnamon, and cranberries lingering on John’s clothing.

 _Ahh. Mycroft, then_. Well, that would shock anybody.

“What did Mycroft want this time?” Sherlock asks without opening his eyes.

“How long have you known?” John’s voice is horse, the cadence off. Something is really bothering him.

Sherlock opens his eyes to take John in, and upon seeing his friend staring at him in a way that he’s never done before Sherlock instantly sits up, worried as to whatever Mycroft has reveled.

“Known what?” he asks carefully, trying to guess the answer before John tells him.

“That because we’re Mates not only do you frequently wish to Claim me, but you also are exclusively attracted to me?”

It feels as if his stomach has dropped, his head still in a way that has nothing to do with drugs.

“S-since the beginning. John, I’m sorry I didn’t inform you but I have never had any intention of acting on my desires and I promise you that I only Claimed you after our first encounter with Moriatry and – “

“Would it help “ John breaks in, “if I told you that I’ve wanted that, and you, for over three bloody years now?”

“That’s impossible. You’re heterosexual, John. Your pornographic material and pervious sexual partners confirm that.”

Johns’ face is stern but his hands are gentle as he reaches out and takes Sherlock’s hand within his.

“First off, you shot me down, Sherlock. Remember? That first night at Angelos? Second, if you had bothered to look at the files on my phone you’d have found a lot of naked men. Third, from about three months into our friendship you were the only guy I wanted, hence all the woman. And fourth, I was trying to send you singles and take you on dates since right after that pool,you clothead.”

_Trying to.._

Sherlock is sure that there is some sort of acceptable response to this situation, but the rush of emotion and that old familiar urge and thoughts of John are clouding up his head so responding verbally is impossible.

Instead Sherlock kisses John, properly kisses his Mate as he’s been longing to due for so so long…. and John is kissing him back and it steals the breath from his lungs. He doesn’t care.

After that it is all skin, Claiming, gasping and teeth along with hands and sweat and push and pull and please god more and harder and mine and love you love you.

After that Sherlock speaks the words to him. Words of miracles of rare device , his voice rolling between English and Dutch and Latin and German, and John shudders and his eyes shine and roll back in his head and he _knows_ now. He knows and he asks, _how long_ , and Sherlock replies _always_.

After, when Sherlock is lying next to his Mate, the taste of him still lingering on his tongue, and John presses soft, open mouthed kisses between his shoulder blades before drifting off to sleep, it is enough.


	71. .55

.55

Sherlock lays in bed, alone in the cool darkness, the taste of last nights  blood still present within his mouth. He doesn’t pay any attention to the noises that drift up from the cobblestone streets below, to the flood of scents that reach his nose, his experiments gathering dust upon the table, nor the press of humanity all around him. He remains in bed, staring at the ceiling as daylight slowly fades away, feeling empty in more ways then one.


	72. .56

.56

Mycroft likes contracts. So does Andrew. In fact, Sherlock would not be surprised if they drew one up prior to Claiming each other. If they sat down on the wooden bench and carefully composed it all through the night, the quill scratching away as it was revised and rewritten under careful eyes. If the finished draft stated something like Anthea must inform Mycroft prior to changing her name for any reason, and that each must agree on the choice. That Mycroft would not burn the scrolls if Anthea understood that even though Mycroft liked to cuddle after sex sometimes he does not, and it’s important that he understands that. That if they are in a professional capacity that the agreed upon name and appropriate titles must be used, and that Andrew will remember that Mycroft does not take his tea the red clay cups if Mycroft recalls that she can’t stand wet straw in the pallet. Little, important things that transform into large important things, once they are in a contract. 


	73. .57

.57

_Screaming._

_Crying._

_Blood. So much blood._

_Blood covering the throat._

_Smeared across the floor._

_It’s not enough._

_He’s hungry. So very hungry._

Sherlock jerks awake, his throat sore and his Mate holding his hands down, his eyes afraid. Sherlock can feel blood dripping from underneath his nails.

Dripping, dripping, and dripping some more.

Seeping into his nailbeds.

Running down his arms and wrists.

Painting his hands.

Staining the sheets.

Blending into John’s hair and dotting his chest.

Smeared across his throat.

His throat, but not the floor.

That’s good. That’s enough. More then enough.

As John cleans his arms, not bothering to wring the water out of the rag and pausing every minute or so to kiss his throat, the thought flickers in the back of Sherlock’s mind.

_Why **hadn’t** it been enough?_


	74. .58

.58

The crowd cheers as the blade falls, causing Queen Annes’ head to roll. Amidst the screaming mass only one woman, as fair as her sister is dark, remains silent.


	75. .59

.59

“When you were younger, John, a child perhaps, did you ever wish to change your name?”

John’s eyebrows lower  in confusion.

“Change my name? You mean be someone else?”

“Yes. I am given to understand that wishing to alter one’s identity is a common behavior among young children”.

“Well not really, apart from that one time when I was five and wanted to be Superman. Why do you want to know? Part of an experiment or something?”

“On the contrary John, I have altered myself many times.”

John gapes slightly, his silver head of hair still upon the pillow as he does so.

“Why on earth would you do that, Sherlock? I can’t imagine you wanting to be anyone other then Sherlock Holmes.”

Well, that’s a question whose answer is both sides of the same coin.

While _Sherlock_ was the name his mother had graced him with upon his birth, _Holmes_ was a recent addition, chosen by Mycroft, Andrew, and himself 29 years prior.

Over the years Sherlock had changed his name many times, as is relatively common amongst his kind. Common only partially to avoid detection, from both mortal and immortal alike. Much more common because changing something as simple as your name altered who you were, whom and what you pretended to be.  You took on a new form, a new profession, and thus, a different social standing.

 A countess to a whore to a solider to a scholar to a circus performer.

Red hair transformed to locks of brown, which became silver and ebony prior to gleaming gold.

Impatience gave way to optimism after a bout of increasing negativity, arrogance to boldness to clumsiness and downright snobbery.

 Oliver became Mary became Rachel became Narcissus became Eric.

In short, by taking on this new persona and all that came with it, you were divorcing yourself (temporarily) from your past. From your nature and mistakes and all the pain along with the tediousness  that a near eternal existence brings. A vacation, of a sorts, yes, but also survival. Survival, for if you stood out too much you were bound to be noticed. Survival, for if you dwelled on the past and tried to hang on to the person you once were (whom in many cases, no longer existed), if you listened to the voices in your head and continued to see the people whom had died long ago and continued to hang onto false presumptions…. then you would either commit suicide or go insane.

So, yes. That was why he and many of his kind altered themselves. A break and a way to avoid insanity.

They all needed that, even Sherlock. Although not for 85 years now. Every second of which he has been himself. No one else.

He has not become;

 _Henry, David , or Van Gogh.  Joseph, Patrick, Stephan, or James. Nor Henry, Claude, Julies, Godric,_ or any other of the hundreds of identies that he’d chosen throughout the centuries.

No longer is he playing the part of;

_Edmund, a passenger onboard a British warship bound for Australia. The aristocratic Nephew of a  very wealthy and influential man. A young man with ginger hair and an arrogance and a sense of entitlement that is quite frankly disgusting. An individual that is clumsy and foolish, that falls ill and is shocked and horrified when accusations of “buggery” are reported amongst the crew._

_A dark haired slave by the name of Kal, his toga wrapped loosely around his waist. He pays no mind as his Queen, Cleopatra, unrolls herself from a slab of carpet in front of the Lord Ceaser. His eyes are fixed on his lovers, Lolita and Uric as they quietly fuck in a shadowed archway down the hall._

_Rohan. Crisp deep golden curls, for however much his name seems to put one in mind of an earth shade. A solider in the emperor’s army, an ex-gladtior whose brutality is unmatched and whose bloodlust is well known. A man who, unknown to all but one, joined the ring to keep his ailing father from starving._

_Liam. A man with kohl rimmed eyes and tight fitting clothes, both of which match his long black curls. His hips are cocked invitingly as he continues to stand at street corners and hang outside of bars and clubs despite the AIDS epidemic raging around him. Track marks litter his inner arm. A gay whore and a junkie, to all whom see. They are correct, although gay is not quite accurate, and it is something different that he chooses to put into his veins._

How to explain this to his lover? The drive to shove oneself into dormancy and craft a new identity to take its place? How does he even begin to explain the need to escape a boredom so crippling and savage that it will destroy ones’ mind, leaving nothing but a tangled mess of blood and agony and howling rage… for all that it lays on a blanket of absolute stillness? The compulsion to be someone else because you cannot stand yourself any longer?

_If you truly haven’t got a clue give an example, study his reaction, then lead him into the complexities. Idiot._

His inner voice sounds like John, whom, Sherlock suddenly realizes, is quietly watching him, eyes calm and questioning while his hand rubs soothingly along his hip.

Sherlock knows that if he chooses not to speak John will not force the issue. But Sherlock wants to tell him, for he has already reveled much to him, regardless of their level of importance. Why not this?

So…

“Once, when I was traveling across the Sierra, which I was forced to do at night for, at the time, the sun was fatal to me, I came across a man traveling with his sons. - Poor nomads, judging by their dress, thin faces, and strongly callused hands. The third son struggling with homosexual desires, despite his devotion to his families God. - Despite the darkness the saw my pale skin, and upon noticing the coloration of my clothing, mistook me for a runaway slave. They were not hostile however, and I did not correct them. I told them that my name was Jhara….. “


	76. 18

 

**This chapter contains mentions of the sexual abuse of a child, and although nothing is described in graphic detail it may still be a trigger for some people. Read as you choose.**

Chapter Eighteen

 

The next three years pass quickly.

A new Queen takes up the thorn, prices of food skyrocket, he and John fight now and again (properly fight, mind you), the world accepts his return and body parts continue to end up in the fridge.  It takes time as well, for Sherlock not to expect that wave of revulsion to run over him, to accept that John will not and does not desire another. For the hurt that John had inflicted upon him to fade away. But fade it does.

John walks in on Mycroft and Anthea having sex, some new clothing comes into style, Sherlock buys twelve laptops just to take them apart, the skull becomes cracked, Lestrade allows them back on cases, John continues his work at the hospital, Sherlock’s urge to continually wash his hands slowly fades away, and John’s hair becomes more gray.

Mycroft continues his work as the British Government, Sherlock attempts to teach John how to ride a horse, Mrs. Hudsons’ sister moves into 221C, John is still subjected to Mycroft’s kidnapping and occasionally checks out individuals other then Sherlock, and toxic beetles get loose in the flat.

All’s normal, more or less.

*********

Then normal takes a tail spin. It started with a phone call. A phone call informing them that Lestrade and Molly have both been killed in a home invasion, and that according to the documents, he and John are to be Nathans’ official guardians. There is no time for either of them to get used to the idea, not even a semi lengthy process that is the norm in human cases. According to Witch law the responsibitly of caring for an orphaned child befalls upon the closest members of the child’s Clan. To the best of Sherlock’s knowdgle Molly had broken away from her family about a decade ago, and possessed no official Clan. When she assigned him and John Clan status by listing them as her son’s guardians it meant that, legally, Nathan Lestrade instantly became their son upon his birth parents deaths. No process or paperwork required.

It takes two days after the call for the Witch social worker to hand over the child, and as Sherlock holds the sleepy three year old whose face is red from crying, he cannot help but wonder what his deceased friends had been thinking.

Apparently what Molly and Lestrade had been thinking was “how can we mess up their life from the grave?” Because not only does Nathan remember his mother and father he also seems to exclusively want them and has taken to crying and screaming “No!” at the sight of his new caregivers. He is also throwing his food, taken a liking to hair pulling, and running all over the flat as fast as his legs can carry him (the flat which had, the day before they acquired Nathan, had been somehow been outfitted with toddler appropriate appliances, books, and other items).

“I don’t suppose that we can make him understand that his parents are not coming back, could we?” John asks one night with a sigh of relief as he sinks onto the couch, having just gotten Nathan to fall asleep.

Sherlock does not bother to glance up from Joseph Belle’s first edition as he replies.

“Unlikely, John, seeing as how he posses no concept of death in even the vaguest sense. In addition by this time next year he will retain little to no memories of Molly and Lestrade at all, and therefore his distress will cease completely.”

Silence. Stony silence.

Sherlock glances up from the text to find John staring at him, his expression angry.

It appears that he’s said something a bit not good.

“I understand that you’re right, Sherlock, but Christ! Our friends, Nathans’ parents, are dead. Would it kill you to show just a little distress about that? Or hell, even sympathy for that matter?! You haven’t even held Nathan once since we got him, you’ve been dumping all of his care on me. Are you really that much of a machine that you care nothing for him?”

Sherlock remains on the sofa, staring up at John. At the start of John’s speech he had felt stirrings of guilt, but as John had continued those stirrings had quickly morphed into anger. Now that anger propels him to his feet, his advanced speed causing his form to blur as a snake does before its fangs hit home. Fangs that have become exposed, judging by Johns’ brief facial twitch, indicating surprise.

Sherlock starts towards John, whom is rapidly backing away. Somewhere in the back of his mind Sherlock is aware that he is frightening his Mate, but that knowdgle is secondary to the wave that is building within him.

“I have lost thousands of people within my life, more then you will ever so much as encounter! Lost them to illness, old age, car crashes, animal attacks and suicide! Every. Single. One. If roaming the streets weeping would bring them back – _any_ of them back – then I would do it. You say that I am not distressed? I cannot attended crime scenes for Lestrade will not be there, nor am I able to enter Bart’s morgue because Mollys’ scent has faded away. I have not slept in two weeks because every time I close my eyes I see their bullet littered corpses. See their dead eyes staring up at _nothing_.”

His breathing is heavy, each breath ripping through his chest like a knife. He has backed John against the wall, hands on either side of Johns’ head, imprisoning him. Johns eyes are wide (fear?, regret?, sympathy?) and it occurs to Sherlock that his voice must be rising, that growls must be escaping his throat. He does not care, for Johns’ last comment is still ringing in his head.

“As for Nathan,” Sherlock continues, his voice a low hiss “never, ever assume that I feel nothing for the boy. ”

Sherlock flings himself away from John, not bothering to grab his coat or shoes as he slams out of the flat, pounding the stairs on his way down and ignoring Mrs. Tuners’ shadow through the crack in her door.

Once outside Sherlock blindly sends a text and waits, the cold winter air stabbing his lungs and turning his breath to fog.  Once the blackout comes Sherlock climbs up the fire escape and then he is running over the rooftops. Running as he hasn’t done in decades, the world blurring around him as he leaps over the gaps between the buildings and dodging mortals, Weres, and Vampires alike upon the roofs. He does not worry about being seen, the darkness and his speed making him invisible to mortal eyes. He runs until his legs scream in protest and his lungs ache, until he can no longer feel the cement beneath his shoeless feet. He runs and runs until his legs finally give out and he collapses onto the roof of a railway station, his legs shaking like jelly and his lungs numb with cold. His heart is pounding as he lies there, that emotion that has been propelling him slowly fading away. The soft lights fall down upon him, as sparkling and as cool as ever as they sit in the blue-black sky.  As lonely as ever.  Once his strength has returned Sherlock begins a quick jog back to the flat. Back to his Mate and the child that has taken up residence in their home.

*************

Sherlock quietly opens the door of 221B, silently taking the stairs and automatically avoiding the creaky ones. The door to his home is unlocked, as Sherlock knew it would be. He enters, pausing next to the chair and listening to the heavy sounds of Johns’ breaths from the bedroom. It is late, far past midnight, so it stands to reason that John would be asleep despite their confrontation.

Just as Sherlock takes down the kettle from the cupboard soft whimpers reach his ears. Nathan. His hands still upon the kettle, waiting to see if they will cease. Within a few moments they are increasing in volume, not a full out cry, but quickly approaching it. Johns’ words echo in his head and against his will Sherlock knows that John is right. He has not held Nathan once and has seen to his care in only the most basic sense of the word. He is well aware as to why, however it does not excuse him.

He cannot allow the past to affect his current behavior. It is not fair to Nathan nor John.

Quickly making his way into Nathans’ room Sherlock picks up the half asleep toddler from the bed, the solid weight of his form a new, for all that it is not an unexperinced, sensation.

It takes a moment for his hands to find the correct placement, but find them they do, one hand beneath the child’s diaper clad bottom and the other flat against the tiny back. The small dark head nestles itself on the shoulder beneath it, warm, tiny breaths puffing against Sherlock’s neck.

“You must be quiet, Nathan. John is very tired and needs his rest. I will do for now, won’t I, child?”

His voice has dropped to a mummer, a slow and gentle cadence.  Nathan, it seems, is soothed by it, for he stops moving about. His whimpers remain, however, although at a lower volume.

The manner in which Sherlock holds the small form closer to his chest as his hand rubs circles on the small back is instinctive and completely unconchies, muscle memory taking over for the action that has not been performed in decades.

“Were you having a bad dream? All the evidence on infant development suggests that children at your stage do dream. I can assure you, Nathan, that those dreams were not real, and even if they were neither John nor I would allow them to harm you.”

Sherlock continues to rub the back underneath his hand until the whimpers have ceased and the breaths become even, indicating sleep. Placing the toddler carefully into the bed once more Sherlock turns to find John standing in the doorway, a half smile on his face. John jerks his head in the direction of the kitchen and Sherlock follows his retreating back, a flicker of guilt for his earlier outburst making its presence known.

“I’d like to apologize,” John says, taking a seat at the table. “I should have known that of course you didn’t feel nothing about Greg and Mollys’ deaths. I’m sorry for even thinking it.”

Sherlock nods, taking a seat across from him.

“Thank you John, but I feel that I must apologize as well. I frightened you, something that is inexcusable regardless of the circumstances.”

John shakes his head.

“It alright, Sherlock. Don’t worry about it.”

John pauses, biting his lower lip.

“Sherlock, about Nathan. What I saw in there… everything seemed to come so easy for you. Talking to him, rocking him. Comforting him. Hell, when I try it I’m walking around for hours trying to get him to settle. Why have you refused to comfort him before now?”

Sherlock looks down at the table, at the old burn scar next to his hand. He knows that he should tell John. That he should revel the reason why Nathans’ screams turn him cold and how, whenever the prospect of providing comfort via touch had presented itself, he had felt sick at the mere prospect. His Mate knows about his daughter, about Meldoy, but he does not know about.... and when John finds out, will he leave him? Sherlock wouldn’t blame his Mate if he did, for what he had done (what he’d allowed!) was inexcusable. His stomach is twisting itself into knots and his body feels cold despite the warmth of the flat. John takes his hand and Sherlock slowly raises his eyes, taking in the concerned face across from him.

“Sherlock. Please, just tell me.”

Closing his eyes Sherlock forces the words out of his mouth, from where they have been resting behind his tongue for decades now.

“In 1924 my wife, Sylvia, birthed me a son. Michael. Her affairs were well known amongst our social circle, so the question of weather or not he was mine was often posed to me. I could smell that Michael was mine, however, and that would have been the case even if it were not so. I loved my son and tried to spend as much time with him as I could, but times were vastly different then. Fathers were not encouraged to spend a great amount of time with their children, and because his mother as well as staff members whom were devoted to his care were present I could not devote myself to him as I had to my pervious children. In addition I was still highly addicted to drugs, and used them frequently, although never when he was within the household. When Michael was two the war started, and I was often away from home for years at a time. I would frequently write to him, but very rarely would I receive a response. I am not sure that Michael held much emotion for me at all, so infrequent were I present in his life. Once a year, in fact, for that was how often I was granted official leave and could travel where I wished. When he was eight years old I received word that he had fallen from a horse. Broke his neck.”

Sherlock knows that John heard his voice waver on the last sentence, the memory of the mud drenched, barley comprehensible letter clear in his mind. John’s thumb rubs across his knuckles in silent comfort, waiting for him to continue.

“I ran home and when I entered his room…. I had not allowed myself to properly observe for fifteen years and… when I saw ….”

Sherlock bites his tongue and clenches his eyes, gripping Johns’ hand tighter still, the recollection vivid enough to cause horror to spread over his body.

“It was there all over his room John. The scent of blood on the sheets, the taste of seaman in the water glass, handprints on the furniture. Even the air tasted of it. Of terror and musk and hate and disgust and… everything else was old but the _air_ , it was so thick with it that it felt as if a wet rag had been stuffed down my throat.”

Johns’ hand has become stiff over his. Anger. John is angry. As well he should be.

“I hope you killed the bastard responsible.”

Sherlock’s eyes fly open. John is angry but not at him? Why is he not angry at him? Why is he not getting up to take Nathan before walking out the door?

“Don’t you understand John? I am the one responsible. I was Michaels’ father. I should have protected him and I failed. I may not have violated him, but I am responsible all the same.” His voice is low and broken, shattered glass running thick with blood.

John shakes his head rapidly, his mouth pressed into a firm line.

“No, Sherlock. Yes you made mistakes, but even if you had allowed yourself to observe there is no way that even you, on one visit per year, could have seen – “

“Mistakes?” Sherlock cuts in, his lips morphing into a sneer, his voice cold and ugly and filled with poison.

“The one whom violated my son was our gardener, and the abuse had been going on for two years, John. Two years! How often did it occur? Did my son scream? Did he cry? Or did he remain silent, too afraid to make a sound and convinced that no one, least of all the person whom was a mere glitch in his memory, would care enough to come?”

John opens his mouth to speak but Sherlock halts him, the venom still flowing thick and hot.

“In fact, just a month before his death while we were staying in our lake house, Michael came into my room crying because he’d had a bad dream. He must have been seeking his mother, but found my worthless form instead. He was afraid, even I could see that, but I was a fool and assumed that it was just from the dream itself. So do you know what I did? I picked him up, sang him a song, and carried him back to the bed that was an exact replicable of his one at home. His dream must have been about his abuse, and I put him back in the very place where it as good as occurred.”

There is barley a pause before Sherlock continues, a bitter laugh overlaying his words.

“And as I laid him down, do you know what he did? He clung to my hand and begged me not to go, pleaded with me not to leave him. I swore to him I would not and he held my hand all night, for some unfathomable reason trusting me to keep him safe. I was gone before he returned form school the next day, back to the war.”

When he is finished John is silent, the only noise in the flat that of two human organs, pumping blood and pushing air in an off beat rhythm. Downstairs Mrs. Hudson shits in her sleep, rats and a few cockroaches scurry about, and the centaury old building creaks and groans around them. 

All of it background noise.

John licks his lips, choosing his words carefully.

“Sherlock I can’t erase your guilt or your pain, no matter how much I wish to. I can’t change the past. I can only ask what you did after you realized what had been going on?”

“Once I was able to pick myself up from the floor I went in search of the man, only to discover that my wife had poisoned him first.”

“And what would you have done had you found him alive?”

“Peeled the skin from his body. As it was my own skin did just fine.”

It is said matter-of-factly, as if talking about mutilating himself in place of another is akin to the weather.

John’s eyes flicker downwards, and Sherlock knows that John has just pieced together the origin of the thick, ragged mass of scar tissue that extends a good six inches above his knee.

“Don’t you see, Sherlock? The second you figured out what had been happening you were prepared to kill to protect Michael. To protect your son. That’s why you didn’t fail him.”

“And I’m guessing,” John continues softly, stalling the automatic objection that springs to Sherlock’s’ lips, “that’s the reason why you haven’t responded to Nathan. Because you feel that you failed the child that cried out and sought comfort in you, and you are afraid that you will fail Nathan as well.”

“Yes.” Sherlock mummers.

“You won’t.”

“What makes you so sure?”

John leans towards him across the table, his thumb stroking his inner wrist.

“Because I know you, Sherlock. You will do anything to protect those that you care about, even Mycroft. You’d kill for him, if necessary, and I don’t doubt for one moment that you’d do that and more for Nathan. And when you’re willing to do that, there’s really no way you can fail.”

“Now what do you say we get to bed? I’m not expecting you to sleep, not after what you just told me. But you’re going to be pretty drained after unloading like that, and resting your body will do you good.”

Sherlock nods, knowing that John is correct. He is feeling drained already. Emotionally and physically drained.  He allows John to lead him into their room and climb into bed beside him, his body automatically moving closer to his Mate.

“I can’t believe that you’re here. That you’re staying in spite of knowing what you now know.”  Sherlock says as he wraps an arm around Johns’ waist, his voice loud in the silence.

John scoots closer and kisses the alabaster skin of his Mates’ shoulder before laying his head down upon it.

“I’m not leaving anytime soon.” John says, his finger tracing those opening lines of stately pleasure on his stomach.

And when Sherlock drifts off to sleep only to jerk awake an hour later, the taste of fear invading his dreams, John is still lying beside him, his leg pressed lightly against the scar the graces its counterpart.

 

**Michael comes from Benedict’s TV film, _Parade’s End_. I’ve never seen the film in its entirety nor read the book it is based off of, so consider my take on Michael and Sherlock’s earlier life and marriage to be a complete work of fiction.**


	77. .60

.60

Sherlock throws down his writing tool in frustration. He doesn’t like these letters! The G is stupid and the S is too curvy. Why does he have to practice them anyway, seeing as he can read perfectly well. When is he ever going to need to _write_?

Mycroft looks up from his patch of dirt, on the surface of which are rows of small, nice letters. Stupid Mycroft and his stupid letters.

Without speaking Mycroft reaches over and picks up the writing tool, placing it in Sherlock’s hand.

“Try the S again, Sherlock. Pretend it’s a snake.”

Sherlock huffs but tries anyway, doing it again and again until… yes! He’s got it.

Beaming Sherlock looks up at his brother whom is looking back, a small, proud smile on his face.


	78. .61

.61

When it comes to Anthea and Mycroft’s work based relationship there are concessions of course. Minor breaks in the professionalism that currently rules their lives. How could there not be? They are small things, nothing obvious.

Wedding rings worn on the correct ring finger, for no one ever really catches on.

 Blouses and ties that are in shades other then black or white; blue and gold, green and red, purple along with gray and perhaps a pink one or two. All deep and dark and completely appropriate, yet a concession all the same. 

There is coffee and tea taken, outside or in the office and they talk and the names and titles drop. Not for very long, just for an hour. Could mean anything to an outsider, really.

Those little touches? The brief moments of contact when Mycroft places a hand on the small of Anthea’s back and Andrews’ fingers brush Mycroft’s’ wrist, lightly skimming the Claim mark? The ones that say; _You don’t need to wait to have me,_ _I am yours constantly._ No one ever notices those either. It is just automatic human contact, is all.

So yes, there are concessions. Minor ones but concessions nonetheless.

It takes John a while to notice them, much to Sherlock’s disappointment.


	79. .62

.62

There’s one winter, the one involving the case that lead them to the shipping yards and back allies of London, where they encountered children half frozen upon the ground. The case in the aftermath of which Sherlock told John about _her_.

About that night Japan, long, long ago.

 He had found her in the woods. A half frozen infant wrapped in fur and wool, the lingering smell of sickness pouring from the body of the mother, whom lay cold and still upon the snow covered ground. The girl had not been of his blood so he should not have wanted her, but as her almond shaped eyes blinked slowly open and gazed up at him, the girl had instantly ensnared him.

Konkeo, he had named her. Little Cat.

Four years latter it happened one winter’s night. The fire had gone out and Sherlock, unable to be adversely effected as the freeze settled in had slumbered on with his Little Cat tucked in tight beside him. Upon awakening he’d known before he’d even opened his eyes, for her heartbeat was silent.

His daughter was stiff and frozen next to him, just as her mother had once been upon the ground.

According to Mycroft, whom had found him three months after the fact, Sherlock had spent all that time cracking his knees upon the flagstones.

There is no recollection of this.


	80. .62

.62

_Tiny feet, barely toddling along._

_A small, plump face, gap toothed grin wide and brown eyes sparkling._

_The sun is warm, raining that not something down upon him._

Sherlock opens his eyes, groggily taking in the solid weight of Nathan on his chest and John, warm and heavy next to him. His eyes are closing before the dream can seep into his thoughts, floating away like a fog.


	81. .63

.63

“Why do you still want him?” Sherlock asks his sibling one day as they listen to the coronation of John II of Aragon from afar, blood still coating his mouth and idle mirth in his voice, rather then condemnation. 

“I would have thought that was obvious.” Mycroft replies, the anger from his fight with Andrew still flickering within the depths of his eyes.

Sherlock nods, the corners of his lips twitching upwards. Obvious indeed.


	82. .64

.64

The bell toils, signaling the Monks to mass, and as Sherlock watches them pass he wonders how they would feel if they knew that their Holy book was written by an immortal heretic.

 


	83. 19

Chapter Nineteen

There are some instances where Sherlock prefers the past. Prefers the time before obligatory schooling, cars, and premade food. Not to mention children that have not yet learned the art of being quiet.

Right now, as he walks Nathan home from school, it is one of those times. For one thing: school! It is not as if he’s unaccustomed to seeing to Nathan’s morning routine, let alone his homework and retrieving him from his place of mortal education (entirely mortal for Nathan had not inherited any of Molly’s magical abilities). Far from it. This morning however, was changeling. Nathan, normally a responsible and fairly quiet four year old boy, had woken Sherlock in a panic, having forgotten that he’d had an ant farm due at school that afternoon. And if you thought that a pet store would be open at 6:00 in the morning? Think again. Try explaining that to a child whom, in the typical manner of children, could not understand why something was not available simply because he wished it to be. At least Nathan was unaffected by Sherlock’s calm and reasonable demeanor (John referred to it as “lacking in sympathy”) when the ant farm was unable to be purchased – not that Sherlock would have bought an ant farm even if there was a store open at that hour – for he firmly believed that it was never too early to teach his son to be responsible as well as the consequences of his actions.

That didn’t stop the resulting headache however, which was only made worse by the fact that Nathan was required to be at school on the one morning that Sherlock had managed to fall asleep after an extremely long and harrowing case that had taken a whole two weeks to solve. A mere three hours after his eyes had closed, no less.

Now as he and Nathan make their way home the ice pick that has taken up residence in his skull jams itself deeper into his eye socket as the blares of car horns and the scent of chemicals as well as processed –false- food reach him. (Completely false for he cannot smell one natural thing other then faint traces of animal organs that are of a questionable degree of freshness that these moronic mortals are choosing to put into their bodies. No wonder so much blood tastes awful nowadays. Thank god for Vegans and Organic food, at least).

Not to mention the high pitched voice of Nathan by his side, whom insists on telling his father every single thing about his day.

Every. Single. Thing.

“Then Sara took the yellow crayon, but Jake wanted it so he snatched it out of her hand. So Sara yelled for Mr. Row and –“

Sherlock is just considering the merits of telling the boy to hold his tongue (which would guarantee a whole 30 seconds of silence) when a familiar black car pulls up on the street beside them.

“Uncle Mycroft.” Nathan exclaims as he opens the door and vaults inside before slamming said door, not thinking for one second that it might not be his uncle. It is, of course, but that’s besides the point. Nathan just saw Mycroft last night, when they went over (forced over) to Anthea and Mycroft’s home for dinner, after which Nathan watched as his Uncle and Father coincided on a stalemate over their chess game, and  Nathans’ current behavior is only encouraging the annoying git. As if Mycroft needs his ego stroked anymore then it already is.

After a few minutes Sherlock follows his son, whom is already sporting earphones and playing Angry Birds on Mycroft’s’ phone. Closing his eyes Sherlock sinks down into the imported Italian leather seat, his coat pulling snuggly about his frame and  sighing in relief. It’s quiet. And dark. Both things of which are tremendously good right now, for the ice pick has already begun to acquire a layer of rust. There is a brief rustle of fabric before the scent of marigold powder invades the air. Without opening his eyes Sherlock holds out his hand, dry swallowing the tablet at once. Two minutes later the ice pick has faded away completely.

Sherlock opens his eyes to see Mycroft directly across from him, his deep brown suit almost an exact match to the seats.

“Going for consistency in every area of your life now, are we Mycroft?”

Mycroft’s’ smile is humorless, more so then it usually is.

“I’m afraid this little feud of ours will have to wait a moment Sherlock, for I have some… disquieting news.”

Instantly Sherlock is alert, glancing quickly at Nathan to be sure his earphones are still in place. Disquieting, coming from Mycroft, is the equivalent of someone telling you that the end of the world is approaching.

“Well?” Sherlock asks tensely.

“I assume you recall Baskersvile, as well as some of the work they were conducting there?”

“Of course.”

“Well it appears that one of the lead scientists, a vampire raised human by the name of Gregor Karpovach, was able to acquire two sets of DNA, belonging to you and John, respectively. For whatever reason he began to experiment and approximately nine months ago he was able to successfully combine the DNA.”

“Meaning?”

Mycroft hesitates a moment, his hand tightening upon his umbrella handle.

“Meaning that you and John have a daughter, Sherlock. A healthy, half human half vampire daughter, grown in an artificial womb.”

_Daughter?_

_He and John have a…_

_One whom is not vampire or human, but rather half of each?_

“So you are asking if John and I wish to… keep the child?” Sherlock asks through numb lips.

Mycroft nods.

“Precisely. I would give you more time to come to a decision if I were able, but as there is but four days remaining until the child will be developed enough to be safely removed from its womb, I must have your answer at once. I strongly caution you to make sure that whatever you decide is the correct decision, Sherlock. Anthea is at Baskersville now, waiting to put whatever steps necessary into motion as soon as I have your answer. Once given it cannot be reversed.”

“Allow me to inform John first.” Sherlock mutters as he pulls out his phone.

John is, naturally, shocked upon hearing the news. His answer however, is exactly what Sherlock was expecting.

It was not a question at all, really.

*************

Nathan, although more then a little confused, takes the news of his impending sibling rather well.

“But I thought you need a mommy and a daddy to make a baby. You said so, daddy.”

Nathan raises his frog shaped cup to his mouth with both hands, making low slurping noises as he drinks his milk. His wide green eyes stare at his parents unblinkingly.

John stabs absently at his peas with his fork, trying to think up a response that will make sense to a four year old. Something other than: “So what you’re saying to me is that some nutter stole our junk and created a hybrid fetus, which said nutter then proceeded to grow inside a machine operated box for nine bloody months??”, that is.

“Well most of the time that’s true, but sometimes parents need help because they can’t make a baby by themselves.”

“So they let people steal from them?” Nathan asks as he frowns in confusion, almost smashing his carrots as he sets his glass on the table with a _plunk!_ The near carrot smashing was most likely not unintentional.

“Not really stealing but-“

“Because stealing is _wrong_. Unless you want to know something and people are being stupided liars, but it’s only ok to steal little stuff so people won’t know that it’s missing” Nathan says all this earnestly as he nods his head, his dark curls bobbing up and down.

Oops.

Johns’ head whips towards Sherlock, whom is seated across from Nathan.

“Sherlock! What in the he – hippos – have you been teaching our son?!”

“Only some basic detective skills, John. But remember, Nathan, it is not stealing but _barrowing_ , because you always give back whatever small item you take. Isn’t that right?”

“That’s right. Don’t be mad at Pappa, daddy. I miss said it, and I only barrowed Mrs. Hudsons’ canary _once_.” Unforantly John was able to catch all that around Nathans’ mouthful of chicken.

“You allowed him to take her _pet_ , Sherlock?”

Why is John getting mad at him? He was not the one to take that infernal winged rat.

“It was only for five minutes, John. The only reason Nathan barrowed it in the first place was to find out why it was yellow. Further more it was only taken as far as the hallway.”

“That’s not the – “

“But why did somebody steal from you?” Nathan interjects, thankfully bringing the conversation back to its original focus.

“First off, _carrots_ Nathan.” Sherlock says firmly.

Nathan wrinkles his nose as he looks down at his plate.

“But they’re _orange_.” He says, as if that single fact makes them guilty of every crime in the universe.

“As is my juice.”

Sherlock holds up his glass that he consumes every night as a concession to family dinners before pointedly taking a sip. It’s Orange juice tonight, not that Nathan needs to know that.

“But-“

“ _Now_ , Nathan Harrison. You must consume at least four, otherwise you will not receive an explanation tonight.”

“That’s all of them!” Nathan exclaims, staring at his plate in something akin to horror.

Making sure that the boy is watching Sherlock shallows another half inch of his juice.

“That does not change the fact that that is the number you must eat.”

With a look on his face that suggests the carrots were dunked in sardine juice Nathan proceeds to place them in his mouth one by one, barley chewing before swallowing the offending vegetable with a grimace.

“Now, I believe that your father may have misspoke. No one stole anything from us. They barrowed it.”

“You mean they took something little and turned it into my baby sister?”

John and Sherlock nod in unison.

“And now that she’s done growing they’re giving her back?”

“That’s right.” John says, appearing relieved that Nathan has managed to grasp the basic concept.

“Oh, ok. That makes sense.” Nathan remarks as he transfers a single pea into his mouth.

Nathan looks at Johns’ still overflowing forkful.

“You need to eat your peas, daddy.”

Sherlock feels his lips twitch in amusement as John instantly obeys the commanding tone of their sons’ voice, swallowing the green spheres with an expression remarkably similar to Nathans’ grimace once Nathan has turned his head away.

That went well.

Three days to go.

************

She’s tiny, this child that Mycroft has placed in John’s arms.

Small and fragile with thin dark hair upon a head that fits easily inside of his Mates’ palm, minuscule hands and a mouth slack with sleep and a body that weighs just over six pounds. Six pounds is nothing at all, really.

She is a combination of himself and his Mate. Vampire and Human. According to her “creator” the sun will not harm her nor will she require solely liquids to survive. A newborn child whom, already, is stronger then a vampire whom has seen two centuries of life.

She opens her eyes, the color still that cloudy infant blue, and even though her sight is still unformed she is looking straight at him and Sherlock feels himself smile, for once not caring that Mycroft is looking at him.

Does not care for, when John places their daughter in his arms and he feels her nothing at all weight and knows that her heart is beating vampire fast and that she is experiencing the same _not something_ that he is as the sunlight falls upon her – _not blistering, not burning, just falling_ – Sherlock knows that Mycroft understands.

Knows that he understands as Nathan barrels into the room and Anthea touches the small cheek, her chocolate eyes bright, that Cora Lillian Holmes will not have a place within the ground nor as burnt flesh upon the earth.


	84. .65

.65

 

The crowd gathers and laughs as a woman, baring the child of her rapist her only crime, is burnt at the stake.


	85. .66

 

.66

A flood comes and mortals fear and blame their gods, when all along nature was to blame.


	86. .67

 

 

 .67

If there is one thing that Sherlock is grateful for, it is that neither Anthea or Mycroft have ever been one for displays of grander on their anniversary, regardless of what the current culture demands. For every anniversary they care to celebrate they go for a walk. That is all. They wander the hills and fields and walk the cobblestones or forests and talk about books and economics and science and staircases and wine and ink and solar systems and dancing and farming and famine and music and blood and stars and fast food and God and physocgcially and weapons and stones. After that, if there is time, they will retire to one of their residences where one of them will locate or warm up dinner, if it is so needed. After that, when clothing is admired and removed…. well that is where the “carnal nature” of their relationship comes through once again.


	87. .68

.68

 

The bow lingers over the strings and Sherlock holds it there, steady, before gently lifting it off, allowing the last notes to fade away.

Carefully setting down his violin on the empty music stand Sherlock replays some of the notes in his head. Quite strange notes they were too, the quality and cadence as well as the style unique to all who heard it, yet utterly flawless all the same. Even the most professional ear could not find a single error in the notes that he had just called forth.

Before John had been aware of his true nature, Sherlock would embellish when questioned about the origin of some of his more elaborate pieces. Sherlock would claim that it was Bach, Rode, or Makanowitzky and leave it at that, knowing that John would not think to test the validly of his claim.

Now that John knows the truth about him, however, Sherlock has been honest with him, having reveled to John a few years ago that pieces such as that were partially of his own invention. Partially for although some sections he had invented himself, while others were original, and still others were a combination of the work of the Masters. At least a dozen from each era, some of whom Sherlock had studied under and others whose work Sherlock had simply analyzed himself, practicing over and over until he had surpassed the master. And yes, surpassed he had, learning every note by heart and inventing his own, reworking and studying and empathizing as well as downplaying until the result was one that even the most talented musical genius would envy.

Arms encircle his waist and Sherlock automatically leans into the body behind him, a sigh of contentment escaping him at the feel of his Mate’s arms.

 Safe. Secure. Mine.

John reaches up to scent his neck before kissing his pulse, the gesture one that he picked up from Sherlock long ago. As his skin tingles with the feel of John Sherlock feels a rush of elation at the action, for even though the gesture of scenting his not woven into John’s nature the meaning of the gesture has been made clear to him. _You’re mine and only I can do this_.

“How many were in that one?” John asks, referring to the music.

Sherlock thinks for a moment before replaying.

“Ten.”

John huffs a laugh against his shoulder, a soft puff of breath.

“Couldn’t think of anything more complicated?”

“Of course, John. However such a piece would have required more time, and as our moving van is due to arrive I thought it advisable to keep the length to a minimum.”

His mate is silent for a moment and Sherlock rubs the hand beneath his – slightly more weathered then in years pervious – with his thumb patiently, waiting for John to speak.

“You sure you won’t miss it? The cases? Living here?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“I’ve survived without cases before John, and this place, while it  holds a great deal of  sentimentally for me, is still just a dwelling.”

John licks his lips, the tip of his tongue brushing Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock braces himself, aware of what is coming and hating it all the same.

“You can’t tell me you won’t get bored, living in the country and raising bees. Plus, what with me getting old and all you could easily find someone else to help with-“

Sherlock turns within his lovers arms, effectively cutting him off and placing his hands on his hips without breaking John’s hold.

“First off, John, you know that I’ve always found bees to be fascinating. Secondly you are 58, far from old. Thirdly? I would not be able to tolerate anyone else.”

The smile on his Mate’s face is short, not reaching his eyes.

“I just want to be sure that you’re still sure about…”

_About this._

_About me._

_About us._

Sherlock looks at John, feeling his heart clench. John’s hair is completely gray, the blonde having faded away. His shoulder is paining him more, as is his leg for that limp was not _totally_ within his head. New wrinkles have formed, the old ones deepening along with time and stress. Glasses rest over his eyes, John having finally accepting the need for them six years ago. He is perfect, and these doubts are surly his, Sherlock’s fault, for it appears that he has been negligent in informing him so.

A kiss to the forehead.

“Does this-“

One behind his ear, barley touching the skin.

“cause me – “

Another at the base of the throat, lips barley parting.

“to appear-“

The glasses are removed, the touch feather light upon each eyelid.

“unsure?”

“No, “ John’s breath is unsteady, shaky with emotion and arousal “I know you’re not, really.”

“Good.”

His lips brush John’s. Chastely at first, the intensely building slowly, deliciously.

Sherlock lowers John to the floor, his body covering his, and as hands slip beneath clothing and navy coats the words of waves and mingled measure come to Sherlock’s mouth, unbidden.

 

**These are the Violinists whose work Sherlock has mastered:** [ **http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_classical_violinists** ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_classical_violinists)


	88. 20

Chapter Twenty

Time passes, as time tends to do. As it forever tends to do. This is how it goes;

Nathan tells his classmates about his sister and comes home crying when they don’t believe him.

Mycroft ruins his suit feeding her. He doesn’t seem to mind.

Cora cries though the night, Nathan sleeps through it. John walks up and down, rocking and bouncing until he, himself, is ready to cry. Sherlock takes her and whispers in French and sings in German and talks of rowboats and oil paintings and calls her Little Heart until the cries cease and her heart thumps and thumps against his fingerpad.

Anthea takes Nathan to the pool and kisses his forehead and coaches his soccer games while Sherlock and John sit in the stands. Mycroft stares at the metal as though it’s toxic and remains standing, all proper and poker straight, Cora little more then a bundled up puff ball in his arms as she drools on his tie.

********

 

 

John continues his work at the hospital as well the detective work (at semi regular intervals).

Sherlock keeps up with the cases in full.

Cora turns one and smashes her cake on her face.

Nathan is five and eats his carrots and plays puppets and bangs pots and looks at his sister with a smile and Cora laughs and laughs and claps her hands whenever she sees him.

The violin is played and handled by small hands, colors sing from the bow and the wood is polished until it gleams.

There are spelling bees and tea and books read together and yet another play group bans Sherlock from the premises.

*********

 

In the aftermath of a case involving teenage girls whom were being raped with a sharp impalement (also the murder weapon) John notices Sherlock’s bloodless face and murderous eyes and presses and presses until Sherlock finally tells his Mate. Tells him about his daughter.

Penelope, long dark hair and at home under Airtimes’ moon and only fourteen years old at the time.

The sun had been shining that day and so he was bound when the army invaded, swarming down from the mountains and in from the sea. He’d found her after amidst the ruins and corpses, after night had fallen. She had been raped, as somewhere deep within himself Sherlock had known her to be, for all that he’d prayed that he was wrong. The evidence of her violation seeped crimson and white from every orifice. Her body was bruised and cut and broken, hair and bits of scalp ripped from her head and her dress wrapped around her neck.

 He tore them apart. All of them. Ripped out their throats and snapped their necks and burned them as they screamed, wadded through blood and water and piles of scorching ash. He howled and raged and exposed his fangs before shattering wood and skulls and tracking – hunting – the ones that got away. He raided the city’s palace’s in which they hid and burned them out of the forest and made sure to hurtle their world on its side before tearing it upside down.

Sherlock would do it all over again if he could.

Kill them all over again.

It is a relief to finally revel it.

***************

Mycroft continues to be the British Government, while Andrew (Erica, Phillip, Tara, Nicholas) remains the only one whom can _control_ the British Government.

Nathan is six, then seven, and then is eight in no time at all, reading Harry Potter and joining his father on cases in between learning to read music and failing math. He smiles Lestrade’s smile and makes friends, sits quietly while John reads to him and Mycroft teaches him chess and is constantly reaching for the small, brown haired girl always by his side.

Sherlock plays the violin and does experiments, helps teach Cora to read and dress herself and walks her to her classroom on her first day, becomes the unofficial go to concerning all things Vampire, and is reduced to the couch when he makes a comment about Donavan carrying Andersons’ kits.

***********

_Fangs sinking._

_Blood pouring._

_Small body failing._

_Hands pulling him away, the grip iron tight._

The first thing he sees is Mycroft standing over him, his expression worried. John has taken Cora and Nathan to the park, so there is only one witness to the blood rising from the scratches along his arms, the way the sheet is tangled about him, or how his stomach clenches in useless heaves. No one notices when the last image fades away, only three remaining.  Sherlock does not mention the child _always that child_ to Mycroft, and as he turns his face away he does not notice that Mycroft’s eyes are shimmering, his grip iron tight.

**********

John is thirty seven and jumps a foot in the air the first time Cora’s’ fangs appear.

John is thirty nine, completely gray and still his blogger, only now is blog features accounts of Nathans’ rock collection and the way Cora’s’ gray eyes lit up when she saw the pony, given to her by the a certain pompous suit wearing git.

John is forty one, needs glasses, and only sheds a few tears into Sherlock’s scarf clad neck at his sisters’ funeral.

John is forty three and Sherlock takes him in the hotel pool, Claiming him and speaking those familiar words of walls and towers in time with each sharp thrust of his hips.

********

Anthea goes missing.

 Goes missing with shattered vases and splintered wood, the taste of fear in the air and blood spattered across walls and that Pooka’s laugh ringing in ones ears.

Sherlock searches and paces while John holds his hand and joins him on the roof and in London’s alleyways and takes his ire with a composure of granite. 

Mycroft threatens and growls and is prepared to burn London to the ground but settles for breaking bones and swinging the whip and working his polished feet to the never forgotten warriors dance.

Cora and Nathan exchange worried glances, Nathan encourages her to drink her blood while she pushes his desert at him, and both of them climb into bed in between them and curl up beneath his coat even though at eleven and seven they consider themselves too old to do so. 

When the call comes Sherlock rushes to the hospital to find her in a bed, bruised and pale with blisters and with an IV of blood dripping into her veins and her heart beating at an odd rhythm.

Mycroft sits in the chair beside her, head in his hands and phone shattered on the tile, and Sherlock knows that his brother came a hairsbreadth from loosing his world.

********

Third grade, and Cora is nervous.

Seventh grade, Nathans’ hair is too long and his limbs are becoming gangly.

Fourth grade and Cora shows up her teacher twice over before she is placed in advanced classes. None of them bother to hide their pride, but Cora, just as she has learned to hide her fangs, learns to hide the bruises.

Almost the end of eighth grade and Nathan is nearly expelled for beating up the classmates that had his sister cornered against a tree. The boys should consider themselves lucky that a broken jaw and tiny fangs ripping flesh is all they received.

***********

When Mycroft is nearly assassinated by an international spy the press is in an uproar.

 When Anthea sits at his bedside and holds his hand and plays solitaire on her phone and watches the rise and fall of his chest before resting her head in her hands, ignoring the staff of Witches and Kelpies and Werewolves that stare at her fangs and the dried blood covering her from chin to waist and her ring glinting gold and the numbers gleaming white upon her bare arm, the press never gets wind.

When they hear that Sandra, the head of the British Government’s favorite secretary was with him during the attempt they buzz.

When they wait outside the hospital and are greeted by Joe, a man with a low ponytail wearing dark clothing and an even darker expression, whom informs them that their leads are false for the threat was not at all serious nor was there a secretary present. They remain quiet for they do not notice his fangs, safely tucked away, the ring that rests in his pocket, nor the stray droplets that shimmer on his skin.

 

*************

 

Mrs. Turner dies and they are unaffected.

Mrs. Hudson passes away and the kids cry, John stares into space and Mycroft silently watches as Sherlcok and Anthea sit side by side on the couch and down shots of vodka and wine and rum and moonshine ( _he in a suit and she a flappers skirt one week before binding her breasts the next, bottles on the table and cigarettes in their hands as they laugh and swing their feet to the devils’ beat_ ).

Cora… the car slamming into her was a near thing, but the ribs will heal in a few months and nothing major was damaged.

 Small comfort to Nathan, whose face remains ashen for hours afterward.

Nothing soothing about it for Mycroft or Andrew, (they who braid the girl’s hair and take her shopping and teach her about strategy

and reading people and that laugh with her and know every move she makes) their eyes flying to the monitors and their hands cupping her face. Nor is John put at ease, for although he looks at her chart and says _Thank God_ a few dozen times he still takes her hand and cries because this is his _daughter_ lying there.

Sherlock leans against John as he sees, once again, the faces of the children whom had gone before, and whispers to himself and his mate and siblings and the room at large. Whispers that he _cannot_ loose another child.

************

Nathan is twenty one and off to the university, and in the blink of an eye Cora follows right behind him.

Mycroft and Anthea retire from being the British Government.

John is fifty eight. His arthritis is getting worse and people are beginning to notice that Sherlock is not aging, for dying your hair gray and creating the wrinkles yourself can only get you so far. A cottage in the country sounds like a great idea.

**********

His Mate is sixty two when Sherlock notices it. Notices it and drops the teacup as his blood turns to ice and his mind screams in denial. 

The scent of death.

Lingering. Waiting.

Centered around the heart that beats human fast.

Only now that heat is slower, just by a beat.

It is enough.

Three hours latter the Doctor finds it. The glitch, the echo, the finial problem.

After that it is… well it is this:

Go home, break the counter with your grip.

Look up to see John staring out the window at nothing.

Take him in your arms and allow him to shake.

Allow him to recite the words. The words of sinuous rills that he knows just as well as you do. Allow him to recite them over and over again.

*******

Pills.

Pills of yellow, red, green, and white.

They do this and that and prolong this but cause this in return.

Sherlock hates them, so does John.

He still takes them.

*********

Call Andrew and Mycroft, tell them the news.

Allow them in when their plane arrives the next day.

Look at their grave eyes and avert your gaze from their clasped hands.

No need to call the kids yet.

******

John gets out of breath and you make him sit.

He becomes angry and you allow him to yell, to shove you even though it doesn’t do a single thing.

The plates crack and the cups shatter, falling out of trembling hands. You clean them up and kiss his wrist.

At night you hold him and watch him sleep and count his breaths and memorize the feel of his skin – soft as satin – beneath your palm even though you memorized it long ago. You are too afraid to sleep yourself.

********

The bees buzz around their hives, uncared for and perfectly fine for it.

The garden is untended, weeds creeping up and vines growing to the sky.

Mycroft aids John in walking, handing him his cane or lending his shoulder and supporting him with dry, gentle hands.

Anthea tells him stories that make him laugh, looking guilty when he gasps in pain.

You sit in the orchid with your coat wrapped about you, pretending that you are tending to it at Johns’ request, and desperately sallow the brick in your throat.

*******

You call the kids, allow John to tell them.

They arrive within hours.

Nathan cries, Cora looks shell shocked.

They take the room upstairs, next to their aunt and uncle.

You try not to but you end up falling asleep, thanking every deity you’ve ever heard of when you awaken to find John still breathing, watching you.

********

One day you wake up aroused.

John notices, tries to move his hand to take care of it, is too tired to make it.

He cries and whispers _I’m sorry_ and you hold him – _never to tight, never how you want, never so that you can absorb him into your flesh the way he has been absorbed into your soul and keep him forever_ – and say _That’s alright._

_********************_

Andrew cleans the house.

Mycroft tends to the bees, garden, orchid, and John’s medical bills.

Cora washes dishes and clothing and fetches blankets when John gets cold.

Nathan mows the lawn, buys food and milk and tea and blood, and moves his father’s chess pieces when John no longer can.

When John is no longer able you care for him. You bathe him, dress him, aid in bodily functions and keep him  warm and touch him and kiss him good morning and clean his glasses and give him his pills and breath out the lines to him – ceaseless turmoil and cedarn cover,  line after line after line – even as your voice wavers and breaks…. you do everything for your Mate, yet you can do nothing.

It is all you can do.

*******

 

 

Your siblings watch you and wait for the break.

It comes one morning when John says he doesn’t feel like getting out of bed.

You enter the barn and you scream. You throw things and punch walls and curse and split your knuckles and you want to shatter everything and spill your blood and shove that poison into your vines and then you’re leaning against the wall and you’re sobbing as your lungs burn and your hand sizzles on the silver chain but you don’t care you don’t- 

Hands remove the chain, lift you up and cradle you against a solid chest, and a voice says _I have you, Brother. I have you_ …

Then you are being deposited next to John and you cry and whisper _I’m sorry_ and John holds you as tight as he can and says _That’s alright_.

**********

It is tonight. You feel it, all of you do.

You are the last one to enter the room.

You look at your Mate, thin and weak upon the bed, and say _I love you_.

His eyes deepen and he opens his mouth but the words can no longer come.

_I know_ , you say, _I know_

You lean forward and scent his neck, lightly brush your fangs against his skin, kiss his lips.

He tugs at your hand, the barest of pressures.

You hold your wrist to his mouth, and that answering breath and brush is scarcely there but it brands itself into your skin all the same.

You close your eyes as you take his hand, just for a second.

The hand within yours goes slack.

It is over.


	89. .69

.69

Death. All around you but never really touching you. You may think yourself invincible. All it takes is one threat to his brother to realize that you are not.


	90. .70

 

.70

The moor is silent, the mortals long since fled due to the devil residing within the hills, and within those hills Sherlock lays upon the grass and relishes in the complete absence of mortal clamor.


	91. 21

Chapter Twenty One

 

Sherlock stands at Johns’ grave, just as John stood at his all those decades ago. Only this time it is not a magic trick. No game of smoke and mirrors. There is, indeed, a body within the ground. Johns’ body, whose form Sherlock knows – knew – better then he knows his own form, over five millennia and scars and all.

It is his Mate, a Vampire’s heart, whom is lying within that coffin. Whom is lying there far, far too early. A small part of Sherlock wishes he were there beside him, but only a small part for the rest of him is numb for all screams and splintering glass that ring within his head.

As for making himself lie next to his mate? It would be easy. So easy.

 Just a small vial of silver shoved into his veins.

Swallowing a flower of white oleander would work.

As would prolonged contact to Rosemary.

If those were not available then a hoard of other things would do the trick.

Except.

Except he has lost people to suicide so he knows first hand the devastation that it causes. He cannot do that to his family, all of whom are grieving in their own way – crying and drinking tea and throwing a knife at the barn – and he will not give them something, _someone_ , to grieve over again so soon.

Except.

Except Mycroft’s’ Order, almost never issued, was given today after Cora and Nathan walked away.

“You shall not kill yourself, nor allow another to do it for you.”

It is said quietly yet rang with authority, as had their parents’ order all those years ago.

Sherlock is forced to obey for that same law that prevents one from killing an Elder is also woven into their bone marrow when it comes to this. Comes to disobeying a direct order from an Elder whom is of your blood.

Impossible not to head it.

So Sherlock stands there, out in the garden over the grave, that order binding him and knowdgle preventing him, and listens as the sound Anthea’s knife sinking hilt deep travels across the lawn.

 

************

 

One month later people storm into the cottage. Four mortals and two Vampires, all dressed in military garb, all with short cropped hair, all carrying machine guns. Machine guns that are loaded with silver, no doubt.

“By official order you are to accompany us at once, Mr. Holmes.”  The Vampire near the front says, brown eyes cold and words barked rapid fire fast and gun held at the ready.

“If I refuse?” Sherlock questions, trying to appear calm and well put together even though he’s got bags under his eyes and his voice comes out horse and he’s not left John’s chair for all of two weeks now.

“I’m afraid that is not an option, sir.”

The gun cocks.

The ghost of Mycroft’s order whispers in his head, that law demanding obedience is what forces Sherlock to stand (as it forced him to eat and sleep and do everything else necessary for basic survival including not punching in the number for a killer that will lend his life before the next days dawns).

He puts his coat on carefully, doing up each button and winding his scarf about his neck, watching as eyes of brown, hazel, and blue stare back. Stare back as they track his movements and watch him watching them and make sure that he doesn’t lunge for a throat or pull out his gun.

“May I have the courtesy of knowing where you are taking me?”

“Baskersville.”

Silver cuffs are produced as the word is spoken and it is the recall of it all ( _heat and HOUND and searing pain and you thought it was the sugar but you put sugar in my coffee and a dangling chain and It’s alright now, John and shackles bone tight_ ) that causes him to tense.

“Before you refuse you should know we already have your siblings and children in our possession. Our orders remain the same.”

The words are said with relish as they issue from the mouth of the red haired mortal near the back. The mortal whom is divorced and is a porn addict and whose past heroin use is making his heart tick at a time bombs tick. The mortal that enjoys the screams and blood and the utter brokenness in the eyes of others. The mortal whom is hoping that he will refuse.

He shouldn’t have mentioned his family, if he was hoping for a show.

Sherlock turns his back and crosses his hands.


	92. .71

.71

The Werepanthers smile at him, all fangs and bloodthirsty eyes, and as he is lead away Mycroft’s’ screams echo behind him.


	93. .72

.72

John has often commented on the sheer amount of clothing that Anthea possesses, and Sherlock will laugh as Mycroft raises an eyebrow because John doesn’t know the half of it. Silk blouses across from starched shirts, lace and wool and heels and loafers, fur trimmed coats and plain leather gloves, pants and skirts, nightgowns and sleeping shirts, handbags and wallets along with deltaic scarves and elegant ties. Each side neat and complimentary and only of the highest quietly, all designed and tailored to perfection. For her closet is that of a married couple, one side his and the other hers, for all that it is for one person.


	94. 22

Chapter Twenty Two

 

Baskersville is just as Sherlock recalls. White rooms and white walls, metal doors and cages and animals screeching and the scent of bleach and biohazards and scientists that would say _Just following orders, sir_.

The only difference is that this time John is not by his side. Considering the recent events, considering the threat of war that has traveled to him through passing cars and the threat to his family, considering the rough treatment as he is made to forcibly strip and put on a white pajama like ensemble before the cuffs are reapplied to his burning skin…. Sherlock cannot help but be put at ease that at least John does not have to witness this. To be a part of whatever _this_ becomes.

The guards lead him into another white room, a larger one this time with metal chairs and a lone florescent light that flickers. A room with that positively reeks due to all of humans that are present within. Many humans, around eighty he would estimate, all packed together in close quarters so it is impossible to distinguish one individual from all the rest. It is all a blur of grass and honey and water and red hair and Asian features and dark eyes, none of them the four whom he is seeking.

The guards do not bother to remove his cuffs as they lead him through the room and into a smaller side room, this one containing six hospital beds, a portable lab, more military men with guns, and the forms of his family leaning against the wall. Roaming his eyes over them Sherlock is relieved to see that they appear shaken but unharmed, although Mycroft appears extremely out of place in the (apparently standard issue) white clothing.

Due to the excessive amount of gunfire surrounding them they do not try to approach each other, even though Anthea and Mycroft tense as they smell his flesh blistering under the cuffs and he wants to go to his children and touch their faces, ensure himself that they are unharmed.

To due so would be unwise. Already it is clear that their captors are looking for weakness to stomp out of them and methods with which to exploit them. Sherlock will be dammed if he revels that his family (minus John but only because he is dead so really it is never minus John) are his weakness.

A woman enters. Werelion. Not the head of a pride but powerful nonetheless. Long red hair and cold blue eyes with the scent of fear and carrion and musk lingering on her nails, white lab coat over a smart gray outfit and black heels that echo – click, click, click – across the floor. Scientist, obviously. Sadist? Sociopath? Clearly. In charge? Quite possible.

“Good day, Mr. Holmes.” She says coolly, pleasantly, as if they are meeting over coffee.

“I’ve had better days.”

The woman notices the burning skin and smiles. A hunter’s smile.

“I’m sure that’s true, but it was necessary to test you, you see.”

“Why would you want to test me?”

“Why we needed to determine your level of endurance, of course.”

“How would testing my – “

Sherlock hears the whistle traveling through the air but there is no time to turn before the butt of the gun crashes into his shoulder, sending him to the floor in a heap as Cora gasps and Mycroft causes the slightest dent in the metal bedframe _the club hits home and the bricks fall from his pack as he himself does and the overseer laughs and says pick them up and get going boy this isn’t no rest time._

The woman gazes at him coolly, as if he were a mildly interesting bug beneath her feet.

“Like that, for instance. You didn’t make a sound when that gun hit you, Mr. Holmes. Even the soldiers here make some sort of noise. That suggests an extremely high tolerance for pain. We will need that.”

Sherlock remains on the floor _a_ _slave’s crouch, a soldiers coiled hunch,_ for they did not give him permission to raise and the next blow may be aimed at one of _them._

“Need it for what?” Sherlock asks, determined not to let on to the throbbing in his shoulder.

“For our war, of course.”

A beat of silence.

“You’re training us to be _soldiers_?” Cora exclaims, her voice outraged and afraid all at once.

“Correct, Miss Holmes.”

“But what makes you think you have the right to –“

“Quiet girl!” his voice is loud and cold and diamond hard and ringing with _order_ for his daughters’ hearing is human and so she did not hear the gun cock _he’s not faster then a snipers’ gun_ and right now she needs to be _quiet_.

Instantly Cora obeys, the law sealing her lips even as her eyes widen in surprise.

“Interesting. She follows your order without hesitation, Mr. Holmes, yet it took a gun pointed at your son’s head to ensure compliance.”

The woman motions for him to raise, her eyes gleaming satisfied sapphire blue, and as Sherlock allows himself to be lead away, he knows that he has just given her something of value.

*************

They put him in what they call a room (a cage for all that it is not bared), and make him sit on the narrow bed while they draw his blood. Draw it they do. Vial after vial after vial.

They leave without removing the cuffs for they are still testing his endurance. A blister deepens, bubbles; the burn worsening. Blood trickles down his hand, runs the length of his fingers, plops onto the starch pressed sheets. Some of it remains pooled beneath the cuff, setting the fire to blazing whereas before it was only smoldering. His face twitches. It will take a lot more then that to break him.

Three hours latter they come back and inject something into his arm. What it is he cannot distinguish, for it is colorless and the glass obscures the scent. Whatever it is it gives him a headache. Quite a feat, that.

He wants his scarf and coat back.

He wants to hear those lines of walls and towers once more.

**************

The next day he is lead into the room that he passed through upon arrival. It appears to double as a mess as well as a holding area, with the breakfast being gray, lumpy oatmeal. Unappealing, even to him whom has never so much as tasted it. Sherlock weaves his way amongst the humans whom give him a wide breadth _afterall he’s restrained and looking a little worse for wear and so he must be dangerous and crazy, don’t you know?_

Spotting Anthea and Mycroft sitting at one of the metal tables in the corners Sherlock carefully makes his way over to them, holding back the scream that wants to rise as a careless human jostles his wrist. Anthea scoots a chair out with her foot as he nears, not bothering to conceal how her eyes remain fixed on his wrists as Sherlock lowers himself onto the metal. As he does so the cuffs shift ever so slightly, causing fresh blood to trickle and blisters to pop and the fire to flare once more as his tendons tighten in response.

Mycroft leans forward, the barest twitch of his body. He has caught the scent, seen the pain flare in his eyes.

“Where are they?” Sherlock asks quietly, ignoring their concern.

He does not need to specify.

“They just entered the breakfast line.” Mycroft replies.”Both are understandably shaken, but other then a few vials of blood being drawn they report that they are unharmed.”

“And Cora’s – “

“According to her they appear uninterested in her mixed heritage.” Anthea interrupts smoothly, tapping her fingers against the surface of the table as though longing for a keypad. That, or a crossbow. Hard to tell really. Part of the problem is the fact that she is wearing pants. Pants are always Andrew, and she does not feel like him right now. She feels like herself and wants a skirt. It’s making her nervous.

“Your welfare, sister?” Sherlock questions, meaning both of them even though he will not admit to that (so what if Mycroft was not expecting to be taken? He’s not the British Government anymore after all and the stiffness in his upper body could mean anything so..)

“We’re both fine. Unlike you, you fool.”

Before Sherlock can open his mouth Nathan and Cora return to the table, each appearing equally unenthusiastic about consuming the bowl of congealed plant product.

“Dad are you ok?” Nathan asks, his hands forming into fists as he catches sight of silver cuffs and the line of blood that has increased to a steady trickle. It is no doubt pooling onto the chair.

“It appears worse then it actually is, Nathan Harrison.” Perhaps if he makes his voice as soothing as possible Nathan won’t remember that –

“Don’t try that! You’ve got third degree burns, at the very least!” Cora snaps, her dark gray eyes stormy as she impatiently sweeps her hair out of her face.

-          prolonged contact with silver causes burns.

“Just tell them that you can’t handle it anymore.” His son insists, his face stricken.

“Well normally I would agree with you Nathan, your Father has a point in this matter. For whatever reason the ones in charge appear to be interested in testing his strength. To cave before absolutely necessary would give them the advantage.”

Amazing. For once Mycroft is on his side.

Of course at that moment the fire flares through his arms, forcing him to suck in his breath.

“In this case, however,”

That is all the warning Sherlock receives before Anthea swoops down and twists the cuffs.

White light explodes behind his eyes and he feels himself fall from the chair, a scream leaving his throat a second before the floor rushes up to meet him.

Sherlock awakes in his cage, the cuffs removed and air the only thing soothing the healing wounds. He still has a headache.

*********

They are keeping him inside the cage, away from the others.

Four days.

Six days.

Eight days.

They give him blood bags that smell of too much blood glucose but he drinks them anyway.

He is quizzed on military strategy and weapon usage until he wants to rip their tongues from their mouths but he gives them all the right answers regardless because he knows that others are watching.

He wants to see his children, to view Anthea’s face and even Mycroft’s’ grimace. He craves the buzz of conversation and human scents and faces that have more then one expression. He longs to pound on the wall and dent his door and force them to let him out. He can’t.

He falls asleep and dreams of John, and when he wakes up he hides his tears from the camera blinking in the corner of his cell.

***********

They are injecting him with things. Liquid that makes his heart race and head split as his skin tingles and colors flash beneath his lids.

Movement seems to help. So he runs in place and does sit ups and push ups and a host of other dull excrises even though they are not strictly required. Does them over and over even though he could do them in his sleep because then he doesn’t feel as if he’s about to jump out of his skin.

Anthea is allowed into his cage, then Mycroft. They appear tired and stressed but otherwise alright. They notice the injection sites and say the humans have been receiving drugs too. Anthea answers his wordless question with a single nod – _are they ok, are you watching them? Yes, of course_ – Mycroft comments on his weight gain – _you know very well it’s muscle, you fat sod_ – although he’s one to talk because he’s put on at least two stones of the same. 

When the guards come to retrieve them he almost gets on his knees and begs for them to be allowed to stay.

Almost.

*********

Sherlock misses them, his coat and scarf, the blue fabric having been in his possession for over one hundred years.

They smelled comforting, and everything here reeks like human made chemicals.

They hugged his body just how he liked it. The clothing provided for him is too loose. He hates it and would rather go naked, but then the one’s controlling all of this would be able to tell that something’s wrong. Can’t have that.

 

**********

He doesn’t like to lay on the bed. They question him about it, seem to think there’s a deeply hidden reason as to why he doesn’t prefer to sleep on a mattress that’s as hard as concert. Of course, he’s not going to say that it is not just the mattress itself that he finds reprehensible, but rather how the sheets hold no traces of John’s scent.

Often, when he does manage to sleep, he will become aroused. They notice, of course, and ask if _anything_ can be done to ease his problem. He remains stone faced and holds back his expression of disgust as he refuses, for he is not going to let them know that it is the recall of his deceased Mate that gets him to such a state (as well as what causes the tear on his face and that phantom pain where that heart used to rest, but they never see that). They would only use that to torment him to a greater extent then it already is. Besides, biologically speaking, his body and mind are still bound (will remain forever bound) to John Watson, and therefore he would be incapable of responding to their… stimulation attempts. It would make for a very disappointing experiment.

He wants tea. Tea in a yellow mug. John always drank tea in a yellow mug. He misses tea, misses the mug, misses John. Misses the tumbling words of Xanadu and the sensation of _Mine, Warm. Safe_ that they brought. That John brought.

*************

The gun is slammed into him. Into his back, stomach, neck and shoulders. He falls with the blows and remains silent – _falls and curls up to protect anything vital because that’s where they’ll strike first and if they hit you there you’re as dead as if they sink a knife into your belly so learn how to do it and do it well and never forget_.

As he does when boots take the place of the gun. _Leather instead of high heeled pumps or fur moskins or clawed paws and at least they’re not aiming at his head this time._

Apart from some instinctive choking, it is the same when three Werewolves hold him down and a human pours bucket after bucket of water over his face.

Darkness next. They switch off the lights around him (and if he had anything resembling a window Sherlock knows they’d cover that too), plunging him into complete darkness. Even the red light on the camera is painted over. He cannot make out so much as the outline of his hand in front of his face, let alone the wall or the shower head in the corner. Nothing. Sherlock is aware of what they are doing, as the darkness presses on his eyes as his pupils automatically strain for the smallest ounce of light. A form of sensory deprivation as they test his tolerance in another way. A way that does not involve bruises. Doesn’t make it any easier as the dark begins to feel heavy, like a thick cold blanket pressing down on him. Pinning him. Suffocating him. When they turn the lights back on Sherlock tries to breath evenly.

 ************

Three decades. That was how long he was with John. How long he was at his Mate’s side. It’s strange. Thirty years is nothing at all to his kind, and when he looks back on it he can’t recall if it flew by or went at a snail’s pace. It’s odd, because any Mated pair would be horrified at how little time he had with John, yet he would relive every day of those thirty years without hesitation and take nothing more, if that was all John had to offer him.

John had always liked _Dr. Who_ , whereas he had hated it. He wants to watch it now, though. He is promised a book instead, and he is hoping that the topic will be something that does not remind him of John. So when he is given a textbook on human anatomy as well as an autobiography of an alcoholic, he can’t help but laugh at the irony.

Lately Sherlock does not want to sleep. True, nine hours per week is all that is required for a Vampire, but when you are living in an facility in which the tedium is enough to destroy ones’ mind and is only broken by needles, probing questions, and beatings you would think that one would sleep more just to pass the time.  It is the nightmare that stops him. The one where John is standing at their bedroom window, while he cannot go beyond the end of the driveway. He calls out to John, begging him to stay put, that he is coming…. And that is when Sherlock glances up to see John standing on the rooftop, gazing at him with blank eyes a second before he falls. Before he jumps. Before he looses him. Normally Sherlock has always been able to handle anything his mind has thrown at him, but that…. he doesn’t want to deal with that again. Doesn’t want to face loosing his heart once again. So he stays awake in the hopes that, if he can get tired enough, he will be able to sleep the sleep of the dead without nightmares invading his head.

**************

Laying there in the dark Sherlock keeps his eyes closed as he pulls his clothing tighter around himself until it is molded to his body, twists his neck around until part of the blanket is wrapped around it, and imagines that they have taken on the hue of the sky.

*************

 

More liquid is placed within his body, in his neck this time _not in the side that John marked that he always marked so at least he is being given that courtesy even if they don’t know they are doing so_.

His head pounds. Pounds a steady sledgehammer thump against his temple. When he tries to shield his eyes they increase the light.

His heart hurts. Hurts for it is beating too fast in a way that it’s never meant to beat.

They let him out.

They let him out but there’s noise and people and scents bombarding him and that sledgehammer slams and his heart aches and there’s Nathan and Andrew (chest somewhat smaller and hair pulled back so it’s Andrew today)  across the room standing next to the red haired guard _Orders remain the same, wants a show, craves broken eyes and a time bomb tick_ whose hand shoots out and _cracks_ Andrew across the face –

When he comes to blood’s turned his clothing black and a head lays by his feet. Blood coats his mouth even though his fangs itch for more and eternals are wrapped around his hands. Bone protrudes, stark white from limbs with ragged edges and people are staring and humans screaming and his heart _hurts_. It hurts and bangs out a hallow uneven hangman’s beat and he’s kneeling on the ground, kneeling in the blood and stomach remains,  trying to hold it inside because surly it’s about to beat out of his chest.  Then they are there next to him on the ground, forms streaked with red and eyes blazing as they scream his name and kneel in brain matter and one of them shows their fangs and issues that growl-hiss of warning as six pairs of heavy boots slam out an even rhythm upon the tile.

 

Afterwards they explain, quite calmly, that they gave him too great a does. They say that but they show no sorrow or anger over the death of their comrade (the man that he just literately tore to pieces – _all the kings horses and all the kings men so try to put that jigsaw puzzle right again_ ), nor do they make any mention of lowering his medication.

They have achieved, within him, want they wanted from the beginning.

Aggression.

Savagery.

Exposing his breaking point.

They are not going to stop.

In the back of Sherlock’s still addled mind, a hound howls.

 

**********

The results of his beatings burn and itch because no one sees to them or bothers to fuss over him, and he wants John.

This blood that he is being given to drink tastes all wrong, and he wants John.

He deduces. Deduces the age of the paint job on the walls. That the short lab tech with red hair has three cats and a secret lesbian lover despite being in a heterosexual marriage. How the blonde Werewolf is a caffeine and book addict and this human played football in college and this one lived on the streets and that the woman that cuts his hair used to be obese and that for some reason they have not deemed it necessary to separate his siblings and on and on and on. No one says _Brilliant, It’s not a trick, Stop lying it’s pointless anyway, More then a bit not good Sherlock, For the love of Christ don’t revel that_ … and he wants John.

*********

His children are allowed to see him today. Sherlock knows that he shouldn’t but as soon as he sees them he grabs ahold of them and kisses their hair as he mutters something over and over in Arabic, the meaning of which is lost on him. They don’t seem to mind his embrace, and if anything hold him tighter when he attempts to break release them. They are allowed thirty minutes. When it is time for them to follow the guard outside they hesitate with a stance that they surly learned from John before Sherlock prods them with a hand upon their back. He doesn’t bother with smiling, for they have always been able to tell when his smile was false. Better that they not suspect that the guard is carrying a whip tipped with bone in his pocket. They leave and his hands are bound and the whip cracks and the bones slice as the leather tears his body open. His blood runs thick and heavy until it pools around his ankles and his back has no skin left and his arms shake as the air sets the gapping wounds ablaze _Sparta, prelude to a crucifixion, boys being made to take it like men_ and it is only when he has passed out does it cease.

*************

 They have been continuing to give him whatever chemical cocktail it was that made him capable of ripping a man apart, studying his reactions and measuring levels of who knows what in his blood, and over time his heart ceases to hurt. His head continues to pound, though. Somewhere in the back of his mind Sherlock recognizes that his heart no longer hurts because he’s built up a tolerance, because his body is adjusting to a chemical that should, by all rights, be killing him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Sherlock knows he’s built up a tolerance when it becomes easier to kill them, to rip the unarmed guard limb from limb and drain dry the blue suited human that looks at him with an odd expression on his face before his fangs are exposed. His head continues to throb and the hound continues to howl.

***********

He dreams of fear, of children with torn throats and breaking bones and gurgling cries along with the scent of Jasmine before hearing those words whisper of mazy motion and feels safe and loved, only to wake up and remember that John is dead.

He goes into his mind palace, where his Mate has invaded every nook and cranny (jumpers and the sound of his laugh and beans on toast and that burn on his right hand) and reminds himself that John is dead.

Sometimes, during an especially vicious beating, he will go inside of his head and he will see John walking around London with Cora or aiding Nathan in a book report, auguring with Mycroft or going to the shooting range with Anthea or looking at him and saying _I love you_ even though he doesn’t say the words… and just for a few moments he will forget that John is dead.

************

They shove him and he does not react. Cannot for Nathan will be punished.

Rosemary is placed throughout his room and he has to go inside, for if not then Anthea will be taken from him.

His face is struck, over and over again while somehow avoiding his nose and mouth ( _someone must love you_ ) but he does not retaliate, because if he does then Mycroft may receive the same.

Small amounts of Purple Julie are shoved down his throat and he forces himself not to force them back up because they may be shoved down Cora’s throat next.

One day, when his head pounds and he feels like he’s about to jump out of his skin a human (not a guard) attacks him. Comes at him with a knife and a scream and swinging fists and moving as fast as he is. _Vampire and Werewolf and Viper fast but they should not be able to move like that_. He reacts. Ducks the blow and wraps his hands around the neck. The body falls…. and they do not punish him nor the ones whom they could. This is what they been waiting for. What they have been training him for.

**********

The scarf and coat had both felt soft against his skin. Soft yet durable, made so by a centaury of care and endurance. The fabric here feels durable, yet as rough as sandpaper under his fingers.

*************

John had wanted to go to Ireland. Why had they never gone?

Milk. John had liked milk. Why had he always used it in experiments?

John had liked cats, but he’d refused to get on one account of all the hair. They should have gotten a Sphinx.

***********

One day they give him something that makes him sleep.

“What is your name?” they ask when he awakes.

_Science of Deduction, Mate and small bodies under the earth. Prophesying war and navy blue fabric, Why do you persist Violet, Him and Her and each the same, 5,000 years and then some._

“Sherlock Holmes.”

They do not appear pleased with this result.

**********

War.

It had given John a limp which both of them had been glad to see go.

That shoulder scar which John had hated but that he, Sherlock, could not cease to touch.

The war itself which John loved and that, he, Sherlock, was afraid that John would go back to. Afraid that he and the life they had would not be enough for him.

War.

It made John the man that he was, and Sherlock was grateful for it.

***********

He is in the mess. How did he get here? The humans around him appear odd. Too bulky in to short a time, the bruises indicating controlled violence was the cause. Possibly some form of a rigorous training excrise. Someone is hurrying towards him. A tall man with receding auburn hair and a worried looking mouth whom Sherlock cannot help picturing in a suit. The man stops in front of him and takes a hold of his face, although not roughly. Not in a manner designed to hurt.

“What happened? What have they been giving you? How did you obtain those bruises?”

… Mycroft. This is Mycroft. His brother and elder _Queen and Country_ and the one whom helped care for John in his finial months.

Why had he forgotten him?

“It’s nothing, Mycroft,” he tries to soothe, tries to calm “just a minor –“

The guards shout cuts him off and before Sherlock can.. well, not react they are on him.

Only it is nothing like it was before.

The fists crash into him from all sides, landing on his face and chest and solor plexus and send him careening onto the floor. They have a baseball bat that they take to his legs and back (right over the lash scars _how much do I have to pay to mar that lovely skin of yours, how high do you have to be before you can take it_ )  and then they slam the bat hard under his chin, causing his neck to snap back and blood to fill his mouth to the point of chocking him. Then chocking him they _are_ , kneeling on his chest and cutting off his air with a thick leather strap soaked in liquid silver and his skin is blistering and the fumes are burning his nose and he lungs are filling and he can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t –

The pressure on his chest vanishes as the strap is yanked from his throat and growls or rage and screams outrage fill the air as the scent of blood and sheiks of pain (neither one his own) reach his senses. Through slightly hazy vision Sherlock sees Mycroft, fangs dripping red and blue eyes blazing once again as he holds a head in his hands. Cora, taking a baseball bat to a man in uniform while Nathan and Anthea each hold knifes against throats _where did they get knifes in here tighten your grip son good good_.  It is not just his family defending him either. A young blonde woman has a guard pinned on the floor, broken table leg raised threatenly above his chest while a dark skinned man holds another one in an hogtie hold.

Gunfire rents the air, shattering lights a causing startled cries and then he is being led away even though he can barely stand or even breath for that matter.

As they lead (hull, push, drag) him away it occurs to Sherlock that those guards were Werewolves and that no one, Human or Vampire, should be able to take one on singlehandedly.

It occurs to him that his wounds are already starting to heal and that was the first time his children have had blood on their hands.

It occurs to him that this is the first time that humans have defended him. That the guards were viewed as the enemy as opposed to himself.

It occurs to him that while in here, he has never suffered blackouts before.

It occurs to him that this was the first time he has forgotten his brother.

 

Three hours latter when three unarmed guards are placed in his cage, and Sherlock kills them with his hands alone even as his head screams (even though they’re Werewolves and should be moving faster then him but he is the one they are unable to track), it occurs to Sherlock that this is not the first time he has not killed out of anger, but rather because the chance presented itself.

**********

Someone has been inside his cage. Most likely to make sure that he hasn’t fashioned a homemade weapon or something akin to it.

They’ve spread their scent around the room.

His pillow smells like wool. Like his coat and John’s jumpers and preferred bed clothes. He doesn’t mind.

The spare set of clothing he’s been given gives off an odor of olives. John had cooked with olive oil. The clothing can stay.

The bar of soap in the small shower area smells medicinal. John’s breath had smelled like that in his finial months. He flushes it down the toilet.

************

“What is your name?”

_Fake drug bust. Don’t make me order you. Would you stop saying that bloody poem! No one can fake being such an annoying dick all the time._

“Sherlock Holmes.”

Wrong answer.

**********

It’s quiet. Too quiet. How often had he wished for silence?

He’d give anything to hear John yelling at him.

To have his train of thought broken by John rattling the tea things.

To hear him talking in his sleep when the lights go out at night, muttering nonsense about “snow” and “rabbits” and “that sodding violin”.

Anything.

************

It is odd, that even after the ropes and sash have tightened around his neck and stolen his air, the recall of the warm, gentle constriction of his scarf about his neck is still a soothing one.

*********

 

His head hurts, thoughts going too fast and too loud with nothing to silence them - _before it was drugs then cases then John that made them stop but he’s sick of drugs and there’s nothing to deduce in here that he hasn’t already and he’d give nearly anything to see that smile again oh look there goes his brain again lickity split down the jackrabbit path –_ but his head always hurts so he keeps thinking.

His head pounds and movement makes it worse, but that sledgehammer is always there so he keeps moving.

His head nearly splits in two as he doubles over, stomach clenching. He must be hungry so he drinks a gallon of red  _where’s the pot of black what pot of black he’s never drank a pot of black_ and his stomach eases but his head is still splitting. He continues to drink.

Needles. Needles putting things in, taking stuff out, and putting more things in. The sight of them makes pain stab through his skull, but they are always within sight and so the pain continues.

That hound won’t stop howling.

***********

He wants to go outside, preferably at night so as to feel the sky lights on his skin. Then again he’d be alone, and most of the time he’d had… him… by his side. So maybe he doesn’t want to go outside after all.

Werewolves. Many of the guards are Werewolves. Generally he doesn’t mind that  species but he loathes these ones. Just like before, when he was on that moor and he had thought he’d seen a rabid one, but he had pretended it was a dog because… he… hadn’t known about Werewolves yet.

Somehow he has lost his socks. They were probably taken away to the wash or something. He hopes so, because he’s made an effort not to loose socks ever since… he… had made such a fuss about it.

*************

They shove him into an air tight room and drain the air. He expects to gasp and chock and eventually pass out (like drowning only drier)…. only he doesn’t. He doesn’t _require_ oxygen. What have they done to him?

The woman with the brown hair, the one whom was also a man and that carried a knife and a black phone and constantly changed his name? What is her name, again? Why does Myc – the man without the suit appear startled, sad, and angry all at once? It was just a simple question.

He doesn’t need oxygen. Well that’s not unusual. He’s never needed it… hasn’t he?

**********

Blue.  He likes blue. Something about blue, woolen fabric… he wants them back.

***********

There is a name on the tip of his tongue. It begins with a J. What is it? It is an important name, he knows it is. Why can’t he remember?

*************

They’ve given him too much of something.

Something that was shiny like a quarter _silver, it was silver but why is that a bad thing?_ and that is now making him ill.

Causing tremors and seizures and his heart to beat painfully fast _humanly. Humanly fast_ and flames to erupt across his body _and the man with blonde hair is burning at the stake and he’s a crack shot so he needs to stay but they’re killing him, they’re burning his heart because he didn’t stop prying oh god get John out, get him out, get him out, get him out._

Voices speaking from somewhere above him;

another does will kill him instantly

hold him down

john is safe

he’s alright Sherlock

don’t let go brother

it’s ok it’s ok dad

I have you Brother I have you

…. Who is John?

 

************

He wakes up during the night and automatically reaches for the right side of the bed, searching for someone. That’s odd. Why would he do that? No one’s ever slept beside him before.

**************

He is smashing the man’s head against the wall.

The man with cold brown eyes and rapid fire words.

Smashing and smashing and bits of brain are getting smeared across the white surface.

Smashing with slippery hands because he had caught him trying to violate the heart girl with stormy eyes.

Smashing as blood obscures his vision because he’d had her pinned against the wall with his hand under her shirt.

Smashing as bone cracks once again because she’d been screaming but no one was coming and the green eyed witches’ son had been lying on the floor with a bloody head unable to stand.

Savage, they’d wanted.

He’ll give them savage.

He continues to smash.

His mind continues to smash itself against the inside of his own skull.

***********

The people around him are talking. He doesn’t care if they talk. _You, ripping off my clothes, people might talk._ _What’s wrong with that? Let them talk._

***********

White. He hates white. Too bright, to sterile. He much prefers dark shades. Like navy for instance. Warm, dark, clean without being overly so. That’s a good color. The guards don’t appear pleased when he mentions this.

*************

What is your name?

_221B. He fell out the window. I don’t believe we have met. Stupid. Jumpers and oranges and lines repeated even though the voice breaks. Dull._

Holmes.

Better, but still not right.

***********

He drinks fruit juice even though he doesn’t really care for it. It had put someone at ease when he’d consume it. A Doctor. Yes. He’d done it to please a Doctor.

************

They look at him and look sad, those four. Why do they look sad?

***************

What is your name?

_Safe._ _Ancestral voices prophesying war. Warm._ _Weave a circle round him thrice. Mine._ _Through caverns measureless to man._

Khan.

Leader. Good. Very good.

************

That man he sees when he closes his eyes. The one with the soldier’s stance. Whom is he? Why isn’t he here? He is a solider. He should be here.

**************

They go into battle.

Himself. The leader.

The weapons officer whom makes do with a gun because she cannot have her current weapon of choice.

His First Officer whom used to sit in the govement’s high seat so he knows all about their targets.

The two Lieutenants, both with heads of brown and whom until two weeks ago were completely green.

His crew as well. All sixty eight of them.

They fight.

They follow his orders and cock the gun and pull the trigger back _back and back and back_.

Break the necks and tighten the wire.

Throw the bombs. _Burn the flat. But why would they need to burn a flat? There is no flat._

Do it again and again and all over again.

They survive, he makes sure of it.

His head hurts.

Something is howling.

Someone one is speaking, the words forgin yet familiar. Words of the milk of paradise.

**********

He wishes he could wear dark colors, other then black that is. Blue is nice. Dark, unobtrusive, something made of wool, thick and form fitting. A piece of fabric that wraps about his neck, as well. Protecting it, providing warmth. Yes. That would be nice.

 

*************

After his meal of blood he drinks a cup of tea. A cup of black tea. He’s never drunk tea but… but someone had liked tea. Someone had liked it sweet. Odd that they didn’t like their coffee the same. He drinks another cup, one with blood glucose in it this time.

***************

He lost three, as the battle raged with greater intensity around them.

Three of his crew. Three of his family.

Corporal Maya Franklin. African skin and Asian features, killer round kick and a degree in history. Took a bullet to the heart.

Lieutenant David Koral. White skin and light coloring, skilled knifeman and a degree in science. Had a fall, broke his neck.

Lieutenant …  Lieutenant ….  The boy with curly hair and green eyes, the one whom was one of his four. Excellent with knots, especially rope. Skilled at negoations. Suffered a slit throat.

All of the deaths tragic, to be sure.

But…

But with the first two, while he’d felt remorse for their passing, they were not especially troubling.

The boy. The boy was different ( _and why can he never recall his name? why is that? why? why?_ ). When he saw him fall… when he caught sight of that line and the blood and the eyes, wide with fear… it felt as if a hole had been punched through his chest. As if he were bleeding internally and his world had stopped _raid the palace and knees cracking upon stones and his own skin did just fine._ And when he’d held the body close to his chest, when he’d kissed the forehead and took ragged breaths as his weapons officer began to slaughter the one whom had delivered the final blow  _Never assume, carrots, off to the university, cannot cannot cannot_ there had been tears running down his face.

Afterwards, as his superiors injected him with whatever it was that they saw fit to shove into his bloodstream, just for a moment he’d wished that it would stop his heart ( _just a moment because that would mean that his life was forfeit and something “You shall not..” prevented him from wishing harder_ ).

Afterwards, when his back suffered the blow of the whip he had wished that his skin would scar, even though such as wish was futile for he possessed none as his body healed too quickly for that, he still wished.

*************

He wants to stay in bed, stay here in the dark. He can’t, for he is their leader, the head of his family, and he cannot show weakness.

That man, though.

That solider whom isn’t here…. he had loved that boy, the green eyed one whom had perished. Whom had died under _his_ command.

He could have shown weakness in front of that solider…. only it would not have been weakness.

Not to _him_.

Why isn’t he here?

He wants him here.

 _Needs_ him here.

**************

They have been condemned as War Criminals, all of them. For according to their superiors they have killed too many (killed those whom they were ordered to otherwise it meant _a lash and a shove and a baseball bat and take them away_ ), and as such they have been condemned to death.

However, as they are valuable, they will be placed in stasis pods upon a space ship, which would hover unseen above Earth’s outer atmosphere until the sentence could be retracted.

One by one they are lead into the pods, average ring twelve per trip for their vitals must be carefully examined after the statis function has been turned on to ensure that it is functioning correctly. If there are too many of them at once an error may occur. There is no room for error.

Before it is his turn he slips into one of the labs and when he sees a syringe, ready and loaded with liquid silver, he pockets it. Pockets it even though he doesn’t know why for what would silver do to him? Nothing. That’s what. Absolutely nothing.

He still takes it.

They are the last ones, he and his three.

They look at him with nervousness and a strange longing in their eyes, hardened by battle, and he places a hand upon their shoulders and thinks, once more, that his weapons officer requires something in her hand.

As he is lead into his pod he finds himself reaching for his neck and rubbing that one spot that they never touch. He is grateful for that. So grateful, although he cannot say why.

He turns and he catches their eyes, blue and brown and stormy gray (and he wishes for two more sets of orbs, one of green and the other of blue), and, oddly enough he is glad that they are what he will last see, for they are… necessary (more so then the rest, much more so), and somehow he knows that when he wakes the Officer with the blue eyes will be there to catch him should he fall.

The lids on the pods close, and just before his own eyes shut he sees a white coated woman with red hair approach the pod in which his sole remaining, stormy eyed Lieutenant sleeps, the syringe glinting silver in her hand.


	95. .73

.73

It is the middle of the night and only John and the children are asleep. Mycroft rests one arm on the mantelpiece and drinks a glass of Merlot, staring into the fire. Andrew sits in the armchair next to him, quietly absorbed in the third act of Macbeth.  As ever, Sherlock cannot help but notice those tells about them. Tells that inform him how they took tea with the Prime Minister this afternoon, tea that lasted longer then it should have. How this morning Mycroft had not been able to sleep and so had quietly dressed and went into the office leaving Anthea curled up in a ball on her side of the bed as she sought her space in her sleep. That Andrew (Thomas, actually, at least that day) had brought Mycroft his morning coffee, polite and professional as ever, and that they discussed forestry in Brazil and economics in Syria, and that one or both of them amazed each other with some mental feat (minor, of course, in comparison to some of the feats they have made).

As Sherlock continues to watch from his place on the sofa Mycroft reaches down and tucks a stray strand of hair behind Andrews’ ear, his fingers slowing traveling up and down his neck. Andrew leans into the cares, his arm brushing Mycroft’s’ leg as he does so. Continuing to brush as he continues to caress, each of them still absorbed in the flames and the written word. Sherlock takes in their gestures of affection. Quiet. Unthinking. As easy as breathing. That of two people whom have been together so long that they never have to worry about stumbling, for they know that their partner will always be there to catch them.


	96. .74

.74

The crow soars above him, alone with its harsh cries echoing through the air, seeking. Constantly seeking. Whatever it seeks does not come – never comes, claimed by death perhaps - but it continues to call, and Sherlock wonders if it is as lonely as he himself is. If _something_ coming is better then _nothing_ at all.


	97. .75

 

 .75

John is the one to bring up the subject. Not surprising, considering that they’ve been an official couple for two years now. Naturally the subject would have entered John’s thoughts sooner or latter.  Sherlock wished that it wouldn’t, for although he knew that he would acquiesce to his Mate’s wishes and that he’d grow to love the result…. he _did not_ want to. Not again.

“Sherlock, ah. I’ve been thinking about… about kids.”

Sherlock’s hands still on the dials of his microscope. He stares blankly at the magnified bacteria. His stomach muscles are tight with tension.

Perhaps sensing his tension John hastens to continue.

“Now I don’t know how you feel about the idea, but I… well I really don’t want any. If that’s alright with you, I mean?”

_Oh. That’s surprising. Surprising but good. Very  good._

“That’s perfectly alright, John.”

“Can I ask though, well you’re always good with kids. You don’t yell or anything and you sort of treat them like small adults, actually. Why is that?”

Stupid. Stupid not to have known this was coming.

Sherlock sucks in a breath

 

 

“I’ve told you about Vampire’s repourdction habits. I’ve had four human children, and they all ended up the same way. In the ground. That’s the extent of it.”

His response is cold. Even for him. No, it’s more then cold.

It’s dead.

Glacial and frozen and as blank and empty as a grave.

And it is that deadness that revels more then perhaps any other response could have.

For it is not really cold, not truly dead.

Underneath it….

Underneath it lies screams. Agony and unanswered pleas and blood dripping from his wrist.

Burning flames and scorching ash and heaving stomachs, bared fangs and snarls and knees cracking upon the stones and wood shattering and dirt thunking, necks breaking and nails ripping from flesh and  _raid the palace, burn the forests, and tear the fucking world upside down._

Sentiment.

Something so utterly pointless, and yet it is there beneath his words as clearly as a flashing neon sign.

So loud, so clear that John can hear it as plain as day.

The blue eyes that look at him are compassionate and understanding. Somewhere between his lover and Doctor Watson.

Why Doctor Watson?

Sherlock receives his answer when John reaches out and with one finger gently tugs on his lower lip.

Oh. His fangs had been tearing ragged holes through it.

Intresting that he hadn’t felt that.

“Sherlock, have you ever “   --- John pauses for a moment as he watches the bloodly holes knit themselves back together, leaving smooth and unblemished flesh behind.  --  “ have you ever talked about loosing them?”

He almost scoffs.

“No. Not once. Besides what good would it do? Talking wouldn’t accomplish anything of importance, John.”

Talking wouldn’t bring them back.

“That’s true,” John says steadily. “but it would help you feel better Sherlock.”

 _Feel better_? That’s funny. Almost as funny as _bring them back_.

If he makes himself he will not feel anything, so there is really nothing to fix.

Nothing at all.

They are never coming back.

That feeling rises sharply inside him once more. The herbal – copper taste of his blood fills his mouth. The 6,000 pound microscope is shattered fragments within his hand.

John’s grip is tight upon his wrist, his shirt sleeve riding up to expose those twin wounds that announce Sherlock’s claim.

Claimed. John is claimed. He is his. Just as _they_ were..

As all of them were.

Penelope.

Meldoy.

Little Cat.

Michael.

Sherlock opens his mouth and begans to speak.


	98. 23

 

Chapter Twenty Three

He lays there in his tube. In his stasis tube onboard this space ship. _Enterprise_.

He lays there, quietly, for the red shirted guards think that he is asleep.

He lays there and his name is Sherlock.

Not Khan.

It all makes sense now, thanks to the Vulcan – Spocks’ – mind meld back there on the airborne battle ground. All of it. It never had before. None of it. Not when he was imprisoned in Baskervile impersonating a puppet, when he’d awaken and saw Admiral  Marcus staring at him nor the name that passed his lips or when he crushed the Admiral ’s skull with his hands.

Now everything does.

They’d been giving him HOUND back then, in that cage 300 years ago. That was why his head was almost always splitting in two and why his thoughts raced out of his control and his memory began to go. Why he, even so far into the future, could kill completely without hesitation or regret or provocation.

His coat and scarf had still been tumbling around somewhere in there. Slipping in through the holes of his drug addled memory. That was why he’d sought out that blue neck covering and why, out of the three uniform choices presented to him, he’d chosen the blue despite the fact that it was a size too small. That was why he’d chosen it, in fact. For the way it would fit across his frame.

The rage that he’d felt toward Marcus was explainable as well. For when Marcus imprisoned him and threatened his family, sought to kill him and make him into a puppet…. the Admiral  had not been the sole source of his rage.

It had been Marcus as well the impression of those guards ( _his serpuiors_ ) that had caused his long dormant rage to awaken, that had caused Sherlock’s fangs to drop and his body coil and hands still in preparation of the kill. _Baseball bats and whips and needles and take them away and Andrew receiving a crack across the face and whom is that man without the suit again?_

When the Admiral’s face had been between his palms and he’d crushed it like an eggshell and dug his fingers into the brain matter and snarled “You should have let me sleep!” it had been _Moriatry and the ones whom smashed the gun into his back and the guard with the rapid fire words and the near violation of his daughter and silver and blood flowing from an atrial pulse and weeks of isolation_ that had drove his hands and caused his words.

His name now made sense, as well.

Why he’d chosen _John_ and _Harrison_ without having to think and why _Khan_ had entered his mind that first time after they’d shoved the liquid in.

Khan because of what it represented, the safety and warmth that his Mate and the poem had represented to him and that had remained with him despite it all. Not Leader as his captors had thought. Not at all. It had been the recall of his Mate and son, as faint as they were, which had been the source of the name he’d given to Marcus.

 _Love_ that had been the source.

The emotions he’d felt towards his crew made perfect sense now.

Why he’d been propelled by a sense of duty towards his crew, but it had been the threat to _those three_ which had almost sent him into a blind panic.

It had been the effect of the drugs and abuse and conditioning to which he’d been subjected that influenced his desire to protect the humans, to save his crew at any cost. To hide them and threaten and deceive and drain those whom kept him from them.

It had been the remembrance of his family _his three, Mycroft and Anthea and Cora, his **officers**_ that had had sent his mind spinning and his heart breaking and caused him to open fire and desire the death of thousands and kill and kill in between crying and manipulating and fighting and pulling that trigger back once again _back and back and back_ as well as giving himself up when their death would have been the price.

It had been them alone he had been speaking of, Sherlock realizes now. When he’d been in the cell _not exactly a cage, this time around_ and had asked First Officer Spock how could _he_ could be expected to break bone when breaking a single rule was beyond him _break bone and slaughter and wage war and break every rule in the book a thousand times over all to protect those whom he holds most dear_.

It was the memory of them that had been flickering through his mind when he had asked Kirk if there was anything that he would not do for his family _if he would not destroy and burn and carve out flesh and drain them dry and allow prison and a whip and send others to their grave and make them scream and do it all with a face of stone and never ever blink even if minute cracks were forming and water was pooling._

It had been they that had those minute flickers against his mind, not his crew. It had never been anything much, just a word, a sensation, sometimes a blurred image or vague emotion or a feeling that he should know this or not do this. He had never been able to place them. Until now, that is. Now, as the knowdgle that his Mate and children are dead reach him.

John due to a faulty heart _pills and beats skipped and take care of him and his heart lying in the ground_

Nathan from a knife _blood pouring and eyes dull and try to stop it try to stop it no no no no NO_

Cora from a vial of silver _glinting and her lid closing and Marcus stares at her and she’s too pale and she smells strange why does she smell strange?_

As it reaches him once again it is all Sherlock can do to keep from screaming.

Especially since…. since those dreams about that child have become clear.

Alexander.

His son.

Curly blonde hair and brown eyes and dead at three years old by his fangs.

Him because he’d been deathly ill and out of his mind with thirst and had not recognized his own child.

Had not recognized nor remembered after he’d drained him because he’d still been in the grip of hunger when Mycroft had yanked him away.

Yanked him away with a grip of iron and tied him up and called for a Witch as he swallowed back his tears and ordered the Witch to place a spell upon him. A spell that would lock away all memories of Alexander and what he’d done until he was ready to face it. A spell that would take all of the self loathing that he, Sherlock, would have experienced and transferred it to his brother.

Mycroft had allowed it, even without knowing how long the spell would last and being aware that for an untold amount of time, his younger brother would loathe him. Loathe him enough to wish him dead with only their shared blood preventing him from carrying out the act.

Without knowing how long it would be before that hatred faded into resentment and then simple dislike before tolerance came along before Sherlock was ready to face what he’d done. 

Without knowing how long it would take before Sherlock leaned against him and called him Brother, once again.

It is with a heavy heart that Sherlock realizes how close he’d been to doing exactly that, leaning back and allowing Mycroft to catch him and allowing Brother to pass his lips…. and as he comes to know that not once, in over five millennia, has Mycroft let him go.

As that weight presses down on him once more, the weight that began with Johns’ death and increased with the recall of every child compounded by everything that he’s done in this futuristic London as well as all of his immortal years… Sherlock wishes that Mycroft had.

That his grip had slipped, just for a second, and he’d been allowed to fall.

The vial brushes against his fingers. Smooth and cool and filled with glinting poison, the potency increased to unimaginable heights and the glass unbroken despite the passage of time. One push of the plunger is all that it would take. Just one.

Mycroft’s Order, however prevents it. Prevents it still.

As his finger lays against the syringe Mycroft’s mind rings in his head. Not in a telepathic sense or with words accompying and not truly awake, for all that Sherlock knows that his brother will recall this if –when- he awakens. It is more of a sensation of denial, of pain and fear and a demand that he comply.

Sherlock should obey this, he should… and yet….

_I have been alive for over five thousand years, Mycroft._

_And Brother, it is **enough**. _

_Please._

_Let me go._

Silence.

Then, after an unbearably long yet also a short extent of time there is a sensation of acceptance. Of love and caring and heart wrenching pain and an order retracted. It has been the agony in his words, the images of everything and his use of that one phrase (that phrase that contained more that either of them could ever describe) that had done it, Sherlock knows.

Knows, as he carefully picks up the vial, that Mycroft is aware that it was not a lie. That it was genuine and an apology as well as a simple plea.

Knows, as he slips the needle under his skin, that Mycroft will explain everything to Anthea and that, even though she will cry and rage and bare that weight he will not leave Mycroft’s’ side and that she will forgive them both in a centaury or four.

Knows as he pushes the plunger down that, if all of those mortals were right and that there is some sort of afterlife, that he will be seeing them all – all those whom hold a place in his heart, even if they have not yet perished– very soon.

Knows, as footsteps began to come closer and his vision dims and he feels his heart struggle to beat, that the guards and crew and this Starfleet will not know that he is dead, that they will close his lid before his lack of vitals can be registered and that the stasis function will preserve his corpse.

Knows, as he feels himself rapidly fading away _quicker and quicker and quicker_ that he will not know where nor when he finally meets his death, just as he still does not know the location and date of his birth.

He is fine with that.

He fades away, his heart beating its last seconds before the lid closes. He, the vampire by the name of Sherlock Holmes, is dead and not one of these mortals know. If he could be, he would be fine with that as well.

END

**This is the poem that Sherlock recites throughout the story. The written addition below I located here:** [ **http://poetry.eserver.org/kubla-khan.html** ](http://poetry.eserver.org/kubla-khan.html)

**And to listen to the version read by** Benedict Cumberbatch I direct you here: <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x7mEV9VUgtQ>

**Kubla Khan**

**Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1798**

* * *

                                                                      In   Xanadu did Kubla Khan  
       A   stately pleasure-dome decree:  
       Where   Alph, the sacred river, ran  
       Through   caverns measureless to man  
       Down   to a sunless sea.  
  So twice five miles of fertile ground  
  With walls and towers were girdled round:  
  And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills  
  Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;  
  And here were forests ancient as the hills,  
  Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.  
  But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted  
  Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!  
  A savage place! as holy and enchanted  
  As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted  
  By woman wailing for her demon-lover!

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil   seething,  
  As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,  
  A mighty fountain momently was forced;  
  Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst  
  Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,  
  Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:  
  And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever  
  It flung up momently the sacred river.  
  Five miles meandering with a mazy motion  
  Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,  
  Then reached the caverns measureless to man,  
  And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:  
  And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far  
  Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure  
       Floated   midway on the waves:  
  Where was heard the mingled measure  
       From   the fountain and the caves.  
  It was a miracle of rare device,  
  A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!  
       A   damsel with a dulcimer  
       In   a vision once I saw:  
       It   was an Abyssinian maid,  
       And   on her dulcimer she played,  
       Singing   of Mount Abora.  
       Could   I revive within me  
       Her   symphony and song,  
  To such a deep delight 't would win me  
  That with music loud and long,  
  I would build that dome in air,  
  That sunny dome! those caves of ice!  
  And all who heard should see them there,  
  And all should cry, Beware! Beware!  
  His flashing eyes, his floating hair!  
  Weave a circle round him thrice,  
  And close your eyes with holy dread,  
  For he on honey-dew hath fed,  
  And drunk the milk of Paradise.  
  
---  
  
 


End file.
